“‘You were forced into it, then?’ says Jim Taylor, speakin’ out straight and sharp.
“‘Oh, forced,’ says she, makin’ shift to look up, ‘I couldn’t say forced.’
“But there were the big tears gatherin’ in her eyes—anybody could see she hadn’t had much say in the matter.
“‘My uncle said,’ she goes on, ‘I could have some of the little ones sent out to me by-an’-by, an’ Mr. Johnson wrote very nice about it, and said he wouldn’t have no objections.’
“‘What d’ye say the party’s name is?’ axes young Taylor, very quick.
“‘Johnson—Samuel Johnson,’ says the poor maid.
“Well, if ye’ll believe me, the chap got so red in the face as if somebody had hit ’en.
“‘Samuel Johnson,’ says he. ‘For the Lard’s sake, where does he live?’
“‘’Tis in California,’ says Tamsine; ‘he’ve a-got a farm—a ranch he calls it—at a place called Longwood.’
“‘Sakes alive!’ cries Jim, an’ he sits there gawkin’ at the maid.