It was Ruth, the kitchen-girl.

She seized Katie by the shoulders, carried her through the air, and set her on her feet in the sink.
"There, little Mischief," said she, "you'll stay there one while! We'll see if we can't put a stop to this coffee-grinding! Why, you're enough to wear out the patience of Job!" Katie had often heard about Job; she supposed it was something dreadful, like a lion, or a whale.

She looked up at Ruth, and saw her black eyes flashing and the rosy color trembling in her cheeks.

Cruel Ruth! She did not know Katie was her best friend, working and helping get dinner as fast as she could.

"Ruthie," sobbed she, "you didn't ask please." "Well, well, child, I'm in a hurry; and when you set things to flying, you're enough to wear out the patience of Job." Job again.
"You've said so two times, Ruthie! Now I don't like you tall, tenny rate." This was as harsh language as Katie dared use; but she frowned fearfully, and a tuft of hair, rising from her head like a waterspout, made her look so fierce that Ruth seemed to be frightened, and ran away with her apron up to her face.
The sink was so high that Katie could not get out of it alone,--"course _indeed_ she couldn't." "It most makes me 'fraid," said she to herself: "Ruthie's a big woman, I's a little woman.