He still gave way occasionally to terrible fits of temper and sullenness, but 'Tilda Jane understood him better now, and was quick to soothe and pacify him, or, if he was unmanageable, to keep out of his presence until he recovered.
Just now he was in an unusually amiable frame of mind,—a frame of mind so accommodating that it boded storms in the near future. However, 'Tilda Jane did not care. She accepted the present peace and was thankful.
She had dragged out his big rocking-chair for him to sit on, and had given him an evening paper to read, while she herself was curled up on her favourite seat on the door-step.
The old man was not inclined to read his paper, and dropping it on his knees he took off his glasses, put them in his pocket, and let his eyes wander to the apple-trees.
The river was flowing blue and open now, birds were singing, and all things betokened a fine summer.
"When you hear those robins sing, don't it feel as if there was a little string squeakin' inside o' you?" said 'Tilda Jane, gleefully.
Dillson made no reply, and seeing that he was in no mood for a sympathetic comparison of emotions, she diplomatically started another topic of conversation.
"I guess the birds make me glad, 'cause I'm so happy you let me bide with you, grampa—an' you've been so noble an' generous to lend me money to pay for the matron's shawl I took for Gippie. An' it was so kind in the lady-boards to write back that they was glad to get rid of me."