"She doesn't make fun of you?"
"No, she don't."
"Then for the land's sake why don't you talk to her?"
Mrs. Prymmer calmly began to set the heel of a sock for Justin. "What have I to talk about, Micah?"
"To talk about,—bless my heart, your tongue runs fast enough at other times. Talk of the weather, the fall of snow, last year's catch of herring,—anything except such cemetery stillness whenever that girl is about."
"Well, Micah," she said, diplomatically, "I'll try to oblige you, but it will be hard work."
"You'll not try," he muttered, "you don't want to,—you're the confoundedest, most stubborn, pig-headedest sort of a woman I ever saw. There's nothing for it but my master stroke," and with a happy indrawing of his breath, he began, "Hippolyta, do you know what I'm thinking of?"
"No, Micah," she said, placidly.
"Well, I'm thinking of putting up a monument to myself."
"A monument?"