"An' will ye make the clo'es?"
"Yes, I'll make the clothes, if I make them for nothing, and sit up nights to do it."
"Give us your hand," said Jim, and he had a woman's hand in his own almost before he knew it, and his face grew crimson to the roots of his bushy hair.
Miss Butterworth drew her chair up to his, and in a low tone he told her the whole long story as only he knew it, and only he could tell it.
"I think you are the noblest man I ever saw," said Miss Butterworth, trembling with excitement.
"Well, turn about's fa'r play, they say, an' I think you're the most genuine creetur' I ever seen," responded Jim. "All we want up in the woods now is a woman, an' I'd sooner have ye thar nor any other."
"Poh! what a spoon you are!" said Miss Butterworth, tossing her head.
"Then there's timber enough in me fur the puttiest kind of a buckle."
"But you're a blockhead—a great, good blockhead. That's just what you are," said Miss Butterworth, laughing in spite of herself.
"Well, ye can whittle any sort of a head out of a block," said Jim imperturbably.