I heard my door open presently, and then I lifted my head. Uncle Eb stood near me in his stocking feet and shirt-sleeves.
'In trouble,' he whispered.
'In trouble,' I said.
''Bout Hope?'
'It's about Hope.'
'Don't be hasty. Hope'll never go back on you,' he whispered. 'She doesn't love me,' I said impulsively. 'She doesn't care the snap of her finger for me.
'Don't believe it,' he answered calmly. 'Not a single word of it. Thet woman—she's tryin' t' keep her away from ye—but 'twon't make no differ'nce. Not a bit.
'I must try to win her back—someway—somehow,' I whispered.
'Gi n ye the mitten?' he asked.
'That's about it,' I answered, going possibly too far in the depth of my feeling.