“Hey! what’s that?” said Uncle Enos, rousing from the doze he was enjoying, with a candle in perilous proximity to his newspaper and his nose.
Christie repeated her request, and was much relieved, when, after a meditative stare, the old man briefly answered:
“Wal, go ahead.”
“I was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir.”
“I think it’s the best thing you could do; and I like your good sense in pupposin’ on’t.”
“Then I may really go?”
“Soon’s ever you like. Don’t pester me about it till you’re ready; then I’ll give you a little suthing to start off with.” And Uncle Enos returned to “The Farmer’s Friend,” as if cattle were more interesting than kindred.
Christie was accustomed to his curt speech and careless manner; had expected nothing more cordial; and, turning to her aunt, said, rather bitterly:
“Didn’t I tell you he’d be glad to have me go? No matter! When I’ve done something to be proud of, he will be as glad to see me back again.” Then her voice changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lips softened with a smile. “Yes, I’ll try my experiment; then I’ll get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or”—
“How are you on’t for stockin’s, dear?”