He had dropped the rake, but now he leaned over, picked it up, and rose from the wash bench.
“I s'pose I've got to do it,” he repeated, “unless,” hopefully, “you want me to run up to the village and do your errand for you.”
“No; I hadn't any errand.”
“Well, then I s'pose I'd better start in. Unless there was somethin' else you'd ruther I'd do to-day. If there was I could do this to-morrer.”
“To-morrow would have one advantage: there would be more to rake then. However, judging by Dorinda's temper this morning, I think, perhaps, you had better do it to-day.”
“What's Dorindy doin'?”
“She is dusting the dining-room.”
“I'll bet you! And she dusted it yesterday and the day afore. Do you know—” Lute sat down again on the bench—“sometimes I get real worried about her.”
“No! Do you?”
“Yes, I do. I think she works too hard. Seems's if sometimes it had kind of struck to her brains—work, I mean. She don't think of nothin' else. Now take the dustin', for instance. Dustin's all right; I believe in dustin' things. But I don't believe in wearin' 'em out dustin' 'em. That ain't sense, is it?”