“Oh, Mr. Vanderwiller!” she said. “I am glad to see you! And how is your wife and Corson?”
He looked down at her reflectively, and for a moment did not say a word. Then he swallowed something and said, jerkily:
“An' you're the one that done it all, Sissy! The ol' woman an' the boy air as chipper as bluejays. An' they air a honin' for a sight on you.”
“Yes. I haven't been over lately. But that man from Chicago came, didn't he?”
“I sh'd say 'yes'! He come,” said Toby, in awe. “An' what d'ye s'pose? He done buyed a heap of Corson's spec'mens an' paid him more'n a hundred dollars for 'em. And that ain't countin' that there dead-head butterfly ye made sech a time about.
“I reckoned,” pursued Toby, “that you was right crazy about that there bug. One bug's as bad as another to my way of thinkin'. But it seems that Chicago feller thinked dif'rent.”
“It really was one of the very rare death's-head moths?” cried Nan, delighted.
“So he said. And he was willin' ter back up his belief with cold cash,” declared Toby, smiting his leg for emphasis. “He paid us harnsome for it; and he said he'd take a lot more spec'mens if—
“Har! Here ye be, Hen,” he added, breaking off to greet Nan's uncle. “I got suthin' to say to you. I kin say it now, for I ain't beholden ter nobody. With what me and the ol' woman had scrimped and saved, an' what this feller from Chicago give Corson, I done paid off my debt to ol' Ged Raffer, an' the little farm's free and clear.”
“I'm glad to hear it, Tobe,” Uncle Henry declared, shaking hands with the old lumberman again. “I certain sure am glad to hear it! I'm pleased that you shouldn't have that worry on your mind any longer.”