Her face was wrinkled all
over with deep lines, which, if the children could only have read
aright, would have told them of many years of cheerful, happy,
self-sacrifice; of loving, anxious, watching beside sick-beds; of
quiet endurance of pain, of many a day of hunger and cold, and of a
thousand deeds of unselfish love for other people; but, of course,
they could not read this strange handwriting. They only knew that she
was old and wrinkled, and that she stooped as she walked. None of
them seemed to fear her, for her smile was always cheerful, and she
had a kindly word for each of them if they chanced to meet her on her
way to and from the village. With this old, old woman lived a very
little girl. So bright and happy was she that the travellers who
passed by the lonesome little house on the edge of the forest often
thought of a sunbeam as they saw her. These two people were known in
the village as Granny Goodyear and Little Gretchen.
The winter had come and the frost had snapped off many of the smaller
branches of the pine trees in the forest. Gretchen and her granny were
up by daybreak each morning. After their simple breakfast of oatmeal,
Gretchen would run to the little closet and fetch Granny's old woolen
shawl, which seemed almost as old as Granny herself. Gretchen always
claimed the right to put the shawl over Granny's head, even though she
had to climb onto the wooden bench to do it.
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