“No,” replied I; “but my days for taking off my jacket are, I suspect.”
“O yes,” replied she, “never fear that; father will let you do all the work you please, and look on—won’t you, father?”
“Don’t let your tongue run quite so fast, Mary; you’re not over fond of work yourself.”
“No; there’s only one thing I dislike more,” replied she, “and that’s holding my tongue.”
“Well, I shall leave you and Jacob to make it out together; I am going back to the Feathers.” And old Stapleton walked down stairs, and went back to the inn, saying, as he went out, that he should be back to his dinner.
Mary continued her employment of wiping the furniture of the room with a duster for some minutes, during which I did not speak, but watched the floating ice on the river. “Well,” said Mary, “do you always talk as you do now? if so, you’ll be a very nice companion. Mr Turnbull who came to my father, told me that you was a sharp fellow, could read, write, and do everything, and that I should like you very much; but if you mean to keep it all to yourself, you might as well not have had it.”
“I am ready to talk when I have anything to talk about,” replied I.
“That’s not enough. I’m ready to talk about nothing, and you must do the same.”
“Very well,” replied I. “How old are you?”
“How old am I! O, then you consider me nothing. I’ll try hard but you shall alter your opinion, my fine fellow. However, to answer your question, I believe I’m about fifteen.”