"Don't you do that again," said the old man, his face becoming red. "You stay in your bed at night."
"All right, grampa," she said, meekly, "but I've heard things already."
"Things—what things?" he asked, sharply.
'Tilda Jane folded together the apron she was hemming, and getting up, opened a door of retreat behind her into the house.
"About losin' that money," she said, sadly. She paused, and as he neither spoke or made any motion to throw a crutch at her, she proceeded, "Grampa, I jus' know it's like a little pain hawk pickin' at your skin."
Grampa was still silent, painfully so, and she hurried on, "You haven't got much money, an' you have me an' the dogs to take care of. Now, grampa, won't you let me get some work to do outside to help us?" and she screwed her features into their most persuasive appearance.
Grampa had his head turned away over his shoulder, and when he after a long time twisted it around, 'Tilda Jane rose, and prudently and swiftly retired into the hall.
He must be in a rage. His face was fiery, and he was making a choking, spluttering sound in his throat,—a sound that only came from him in moments of agitation.
"Don't you—don't you," he stammered, "spy on me again, and bother your young head about things you know nothing of. Do you hear?" and he accentuated his remarks by a tap of his crutch on the door-step. "I've had a way all my life of talking over things in my sleep. And you've got enough to do at home. I'll not have you working for other people."
"All right, grampa," said 'Tilda Jane, submissively, and she made a step toward him. She had planned to fly through the hall to his bedroom, and remove his wash bowl and pitcher, for since she had come to the cottage he had broken several in his fits of rage.