“See! Will this do?”
It was a heavy carpenter's chisel with a scroll design on one side of the battered handle, and on the other the crude semblance or intention of a woful face. “I don't know whether it's Dick's or mine. We both used to make messes here.” She chattered on, and thought the while, “He called me Camilla—I wish—I wonder if he will again.”
He thrust it into an inner pocket, ripping through the lining of his coat. She closed the lid, and turned about to the low-silled window, clasped her hands about her knees, and stared away into the tree tops, flushed and smiling.
“You needn't go yet?”
“It's three o'clock.”
“You'll come and tell me to-morrow? When?”.
Alcott did not seem to hear her.
“I'm sure I could take care of him now,” he said.
“But you'll remember that I helped!”
“Does anyone ever forget you?”