“Afraid of me? Why, that’s funny.”
“I was sca’d you’d laugh at me.” Then she whispered, “I dassent tetch my clothes, ’cause Pop would have waked up, so I jest put on this, and come.”
“That’s all right, Swickey. I’m not going to laugh.”
“I say thanks fur thet.”
Such intensely childish relief and gratitude as her tone conveyed, caused David to feel a sense of shame for having even smiled at her pathetically ridiculous figure. He waited for her to continue. Reassured by his grave acceptance of her confidence, she unburdened her heart, speaking with hesitant deliberation and watching his face with a sensitive alertness for the first sign of ridicule.
“You’re goin’ to Tramworth in the mornin’, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I reckon you could buy me a book if I guv the money-dollar fur it?”
“A book! What kind of a book, Swickey?”
“Big as you kin git fur this,” she said, thrusting the moist dollar into his hand; “a book what tells everything, to sew on buttins and make clothes and readin’ and writin’ and to count ca’tridges fur a hun’red—and everything!”