“My wife would know more about such things than I do, but I should think you might easily stock a whole shop with your tidies and things.”
“Man alive, do I not? Didst think it was for the pleasure of one’s self the fingers are always at toil? Ach! Yet, of course, how could a poor man from a far city understand! It is Elsa’s knitting, and Elsa’s only, will all the tourists have who come to Sobrante; and in that Los Angeles, so distant, where the master went but once every year already, there is a merchant buys all. Ay. See here. I show you!”
“I–I don’t really care–I mean–ought we not to be going, Jessica?” cried Mr. Hale, hopelessly, foreseeing another exhibition of “trash,” as he considered it.
But Elsa could not conceive that everybody should not be interested in all that concerned everybody else; and, besides, this was quite another matter. One for pride, indeed, beyond the accomplishment of the most difficult “lacework” or “overshot” stitch.
From the same chest in which her precious half-dozen plated spoons had reposed she now drew forth a buckskin sack; and, from this, with radiant eyes fixed on Mr. Hale’s own, another bag, knitted, of course, and seemingly heavy. Sitting before him she spread her own apron over her guest’s knees and poured therein a goodly pile of gold and silver coins. With a little catching of his own breath the lawyer realized that among these were many eagles and double eagles.
“Why, this is wealth. This is money. I can see now, after our paper bills and ‘checks’ how real this seems. You are a fortunate woman, Dame Elsa. Now, I begin to respect your ‘tidies’ and notions as things of moment. Did you earn it all?”
“Ach! wait. There is more already. This but begins; and it is for the child. Some day, when there is enough, he shall this mine buy and the machinery hire, and the workmen. Then he will repay to the mistress of Sobrante, and our Lady Jess, all that their dead man spent for us. More. He will make the great money–this but leads the way. Wait.”
Trustful and eager of appreciation, which came so rarely into her isolated life, the woman thrust her hand again into the buckskin sack, her shining eyes still fixed upon the stranger’s face, and her fingers fumbling nervously in the depths of the narrow bag. Her excitement and delight communicated itself to him, and he found himself watching her broad, beaming face with intense curiosity.
But–the face was changing. The light was dying out of the sparkling eyes, an ashy color succeeding the ruddy hue of the fat cheeks. Bewilderment, then anxiety, then terror.
“Why, good Elsa, what is it?”