"And indeed," she added, immediately after, "if
she had made more turnpikes and paid fewer tolls, it would
have been just as well, I'm thinking."
Ellen felt the tone, if she did not thoroughly understand the
words. She was silent for a moment; then remembering her
purpose, she began again —
"What are these, then, aunt Fortune?"
"Cakes, child, cakes — turnpike-cakes — what I raise the bread
with."
"What, those little brown cakes I have seen you melt in water
and mix in the flour when you make bread?"
"Mercy on us! yes! you've seen hundreds of 'em since you've
been here, if you never saw one before."
"I never did," said Ellen. "But what are they called turnpikes
for?"
"The land knows! — I don't. For mercy's sake, stop asking me
questions, Ellen; I don't know what's gotten into you; you'll
drive me crazy."
"But there's one more question I want to ask very much," said
Ellen, with her heart beating.
"Well, ask it, then, quick, and have done, and take yourself
off. I have other fish to fry than to answer all your
questions."
Miss Fortune, however, was still quietly seated by the fire
stirring her meal and hop-water, and Ellen could not be quick;
the words stuck in her throat — came out at last.
"Aunt Fortune, I wanted to ask you if I may go to school."
"Yes."
Ellen's heart sprang with a feeling of joy, a little qualified
by the peculiar dry tone in which the word was uttered.
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