But Amarita pored over it by herself, and old Mis' Meade, at the window, knit and watched for the passing. It was a bright day, and it seemed reasonable that at least two wagons might go by.
"Don't you want I should bring it over there," said Amarita, at length, "and let you look at it?"
"Law, no!" old Mis' Meade responded, with the ruthlessness of one whose mind is not on futures. "I guess I can wait till they've begun to hew out their underpinnin'."
"Ain't it remarkable he can do a thing like that?"
"He ain't done it yet," said the old lady sagely. "I'll b'lieve it when I'm called to the raisin'."
Amarita flushed.
"I don't see what does make you cry him down so," she declared, with a rare resentment. "Seems if you didn't want to allow he can do the least thing out o' the common."
"Well," said the old lady, "I dunno 's he can. There, Amarita!" She threw caution from her as far as it would fly. "I guess I set by Elihu enough, an' more too, but it does go ag'inst the grain to see you makin' out he's the greatest man that ever stepped. 'Twon't be long before ye can't live with him. Can't either of us!"
Amarita was silent, staring straight at the old lady, who glanced up presently and blinked at her.
"You goin' to let them books set there in the front entry?" she inquired, as if her point of attack had shifted.