A DAY ‘of chilling winds and gloomy skies,’” Rilla quoted one Sunday afternoon,—the sixth of October to be exact. It was so cold that they had lighted a fire in the living room and the merry little flames were doing their best to counteract the outside dourness. “It’s more like November than October—November is such an ugly month.”
Cousin Sophia was there, having again forgiven Susan, and Mrs. Martin Clow, who was not visiting on Sunday but had dropped in to borrow Susan’s cure for rheumatism—that being cheaper than getting one from the doctor.
“I’m afeared we’re going to have an airly winter,” foreboded Cousin Sophia. “The muskrats are building awful big houses around the pond, and that’s a sign that never fails. Dear me, how that child has grown!” Cousin Sophia sighed again, as if it were an unhappy circumstance that a child should grow. “When do you expect his father?”
“Next week,” said Rilla.
“Well, I hope the stepmother won’t abuse the pore child,” sighed Cousin Sophia, “but I have my doubts—I have my doubts. Anyhow, he’ll be sure to feel the difference between his usage here and what he'll get anywhere else. You’ve spoiled him so, Rilla, waiting on him hand and foot the way you've always done.”
Rilla smiled and pressed her cheek to Jims’ curls. She knew sweet-tempered, sunny, little Jims was not
