“Thet’s right,” Avery agreed promptly. “I allus said so. Swickey was allus incensive to studyin’ if it was brung out. I sweat consid’able tryin’ to bring it out, but Dave Ross was the man what got her started. He was thet patient and pa’tic’lar, never gettin’ riled, but settin’ thar learnin’ her in the evenin’s and she askin’ questions as would swamp a goat. Them kind of questions as would jest nachally set me to argifyin’ and fergittin’ ’bout learnin’ her. But he kep’ on, pleasant-like, until she got curious to learn, jest to spite herself, I reckon. When he went to Boston, she jest couldn’t keep still,—frettin’ and frettin’ but sayin’ nothin’. I seed they was suthin’ comin’, and when she said she wanted to come to Tramworth to school, I pertended to be supprised, but I wa’n’t.”
“Is Mr. Ross coming to Lost Farm again? You said you expected him last fall.”
“I were. But things in Boston kep’ him flyin’ round thar. He’s been organizin’ and consolidatin’, and he were a’most ready to come up last year when the snow come and it wa’n’t no sense of his comin’ til spring. And he were a mighty sick man likewise. His aunt she writ me a letter sayin’ how clust he come to passin’ on beyant, and fur me to go slow when I writ to him, account of stirrin’ him up. But he’s all right now, and he says he’s a-comin’ in the spring, sure as eggs. Reckon Swickey’ll be glad. She sot a lot of store by her Dave. I reckon I done so, too, fur I was thet lonesome-like m’self. He was good comp’ny of the quiet kind, suthin’ like a tree in the front yard what ain’t attractin’ much attention til it’s gone. Of course Jim Cameron come up. But Jim he jest sets me itchin’ all over—sorter feelin’ like as if he was dyin’ to see inside of everything in the house, includin’ yourself. Mebby you have noticed thet about Jim. Howcome he’s a good friend. Beats all how he took to Dave; always talkin’ ’bout him and askin’ when he’s comin’ back, and Jim don’t hanker after most city-folks nuther. Thet’s a pow’ful good stove you got.”
“Is it too warm? I’ll just check it.” Which Miss Wilkins did with a deft hand wrapped in the corner of her apron.
“’Bout her board,” said Avery, drawing a shiny wallet from his pocket. “I reckon as it’s comin’ nigh on to Christmas I’ll pay you fur the rest of the year and up to nex’ spring.” He counted out the sum and handed it to her. “Thet sets me thinkin’.” He arose and successfully navigated the perils of the sewing-room and presently returned with a bundle. “Left this in the front when I come in, and a’most forgot it.”
He untied the string and out rolled what seemed to be several glossy otter pelts.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Miss Wilkins, a trifle surprised.
“These here,” continued Avery, “is me and Swickey’s present to Miss Jane Wilkins fur Christmas, and takin’ care of his gal. Thought mebby you’d like ’em. I sent ’em to Dave Ross in Boston and he had ’em made up in the latest style of fashion, howcome the muff are big ’nough most fur a whole fambly—kind of small-sized sleepin’-bag, eh?”
“Oh, they’re beautiful, Mr. Avery!” said Miss Wilkins, smoothing the silvery-brown fur and tucking her chin in its soft depth. “I just love them, but what will Nanette say?”
“Jest what I do, Miss Wilkins,—thet you took care of her, and made her dresses and showed her how to wear ’em, and learned her sewin’, and mebby done more fur her than any pusson,—even Dave Ross,—and they’s nothin’ this side of murder Hoss Avery ain’t willin’ to do fur you!”