Somehow, all comfort,
home, and frolic in the coming years were promised in it.
"Mine?" folding up her duster. "Well, lad, thee says so. Daily savin' of
the cents got it. Maybe thee thought me a hard woman?"--with an anxious
look. "I kept all the accounts of it in that blue book I burned
to-night. Nobody must know what it cost. No. Thee'd best go to sleep,
lad. I've an hour's more work, I think. There'll be no time for it
to-morrow, bein' the last day."
He did not like to leave her so feverish and unlike herself.
"Well, good night, then."
"Good night, Andrew. Mine, eh?"--her face flushing. "Thee'll know
to-morrow. Thee thinks it looks comfortable?"--holding his hand
anxiously. "Heartsome? Mis' Hale called the place that the other day. I
was so glad to hear that! Well, good night. _I_ think it does."
And she went back to her work, while Andy made his way up-stairs,
puzzled and sleepy.
The next day was cool and grave for intemperate August. Very seldom a
stream of fresh sunshine broke through the gray, mottling the pavements
with uncertain lights. Summer was evidently tired of its own lusty life,
and had a mind to put on a cowl of hodden-gray, and call itself
November.
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