"Oh, mother and Major!" says I; and I hadn't more'n spoke the word
before mother had both her good strong arms round me, and Major's real
cheery face was a-lookin' up at me from the little pine cricket, where
she'd sot down as nateral as life. Well, I _was_ glad, and so was
Russell, and the house seemed as shiny as a hang-bird's-nest, and
by-and-by the baby came;--but I had mother.

'Twas 'long about in March when I was sick, and by the end of April I
was well, and so's to be stirrin' round again. And mother and Major
begun to talk about goin' home; and I declare, my heart was up in my
mouth every time they spoke on't, and I begun to be miserable ag'in.
One day I was settin' beside of mother; Major was out in the garden,
fixin' up things, and settin' out a lot of blows she'd got in the
woods, and singin' away, and says I to mother,--

"What be I going to do, mother, without you and Major? I 'most died of
clear lonesomeness before you come!"

Mother laid down her knittin', and looked straight at me.

"I wish you'd got a little of Major's good cheer, Anny," says she.
"You haven't any call to be lonely here; it's a real good country, and
you've got a nice house, and the best of husbands, and a dear little
baby, and you'd oughter try to give up frettin'. I wish you was pious,
Anny; you wouldn't fault the Lord's goodness the way you do."

"Well, Major don't have nothin' to trouble her, mother," says I.
"She's all safe and pleasant to home; she a'n't homesick."

Mother spoke up pretty resolute:--