"Can you remember that ?" she asked, sharply, in her natural tone.
"Yes, ma'am." "Say it over." Poor little Elmira Edwards said it over like a parrot, imitating her mother's fine, stilted tone perfectly.

In truth, it was a formula of presentation which she had often used.
"Don't you forget the 'compliments,' an' 'I thought she hadn't had any parsnip stew this season.'" "No, ma'am." "Take the bowl up, real careful, and carry it stiddy." Elmira threw back the ends of the red cashmere shawl, lifted the big bowl in her two small hands, and went out carrying it before her.
Jerome opened the door, and shut it after her.
"Now I guess Mis' Doctor Prescott won't think we're starvin' to death here, if her husband has got a mortgage on our house," said Mrs.
Edwards.

"I made up my mind that time she sent over that pitcher of lamb broth that I'd send her somethin' back, if I lived.

I wouldn't have taken it anyhow, if it hadn't been for the rest of you.

I guess I'll let folks know we ain't quite beggars yet." Jerome nodded.