"Have you seen Reuben anywheres about?" said she, sharply, as I came in.
I knew by her voice that she was annoyed.
"Yes," said I; "I've just left him. Do you want him?"
"I want a few fagots for my kitchen fire; but nowadays there's no getting no one to do nothing," answered she. "Reuben was never much for brains, but he used to be handy; but now—if there's nothing, there's always something for Reuben to do."
"Dear me! How's that?" asked I.
Deborah was silent. She had said already far more than was her wont—for Deborah was not one to talk, and generally kept her grievances to herself.
"The butter'll want a deal o' pressing and washing this morning," said she. "The weather's sultry, and it hasn't come clean."
I was turning up my sleeves. "Dear me! Then it'll take a long time?" said I. I hated washing the butter; it was dull work.
"Sure enough it will," laughed Deborah, grimly. "What do you want to be doing? You haven't half the heart in the work that your sister has!"