Furthermore, Georgia was again coughing badly.
At a loss what to do, she discussed the situation with a neighbor, who
after reflection asked,
"Why not dress Eliza in boy's clothes and put her on old Charlie?"
Grandma threw up her hands at the bare suggestion. It was scandalous,
improper! Why, she had even taught me to shun the boys of the village.
However, she felt differently later in the day when she called me to
her. But in vain was coaxing, in vain was scolding, I refused
positively to don boy's clothing.
Then she told in strictest confidence that Georgia was very frail,
would probably die young, certainly would not reach twenty-five; and I
ought not to hesitate at what would make her life easier. Still, if I
had no regard for my sister's comfort, she would be compelled to send
us together afoot after the cows, and the exposure might be very bad
for Georgia. This was enough. I would wear the hated clothes and my
little sister should never learn from me the seriousness of her
condition, lest it should hasten her death.
My suit of brown twill, red flannel shirt, boots, and sou'wester, with
ear muffs attached, were ready for me before the heaviest winter storm.
The jacket and trousers were modelled for a boy of nine, instead of a
girl not yet eight, but grandma assured me that being all wool, the
rain would soon shrink them to my size, also that the boots, which were
too wide in the heel and hurt my toes, would shape themselves to my
feet and prevent the old frost bites from returning.
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