I explained it all to Mother McBirney. She is reconciled—very quiet and rather strange, but reconciled. She will get happier as time goes on. Oh, I mean to make her very happy.
It is interesting to see her and my uncle and aunt together. My uncle and aunt are very grand people, Carin, but they have no better manners than little Ma McBirney. You and I always said she had the nicest manners in the world. They begin and end with kindness, and gentleness and thoughtfulness, and with it all, she is so self-respectful, as if she felt it her duty to cherish her own soul and mind and body because they were God’s gift to her.
Did I tell you that Mrs. Babb, the moon-shiner’s mother, was over taking care of Father McBirney and Jim? That fierce mother of wild sons! I remember describing her that way to myself long ago. But you know how kind and nice she can be. She always was an obliging neighbor, and so, for the matter of that, were her sons. You have heard about the time her son set Hi Kitchell’s arm and was good to Jim. That was when I was kidnapped, and the whole countryside was searching for little Azalea.
The funniest thing happened to Uncle David and Mother McBirney when they were coming over here together. Uncle David knew, of course, about my going into the little cabin and warming myself before the fire and helping myself to soup, so he was watching out for the place. And sure enough he came to it, and he and Mother McBirney went in. There were two women there, a mother and daughter, and both were very nice looking, though one, of course, was no longer young. They seemed different from most of the mountaineers; not inclined to tell much about themselves. They showed the picture of me, and they said they had enjoyed the things I left. They talked about me quite a little, and were polite, though cold and offish. Uncle David had his camera with him, and he wanted to take pictures of them to bring to me, but they objected to that. Wasn’t that queer of them? Some day I am going to call on them, unless indeed I leave this part of the country forever and ever. I suppose I may.
Aunt Lorena doesn’t want me to go to Mallowbanks—that is the name of the old Knox place—all in my homespun. She wants to dress me out as Queen Guinevere did Enid. I have asked her to wait, but she is not very well content to do so.