"Well, history repeats itself on this place. Are you commencing to make dresses for Indiana again? I suppose you're imagining she's a little fat tot, and we've always been just here."
"Not when I look at all this goods," said Mrs. Stillwater laughing, "though she's small, compared to what I was at her age."
"Why don't you send to town for some dresses," asked Stillwater.
"Oh, because it's a pleasure to make it myself, father, and the child loves to see me do it."
"Bye the bye." Stillwater took a handkerchief from his pocket, and unfolding it, carefully disclosed what to ignorant eyes was simply an ordinary potato. "I'll have something to show at the next county fair, that'll make neighbor Masters feel like very small potatoes."
Mrs. Bunker, who was embroidering red roses on white linen, handled the potato with the air of a connoisseur.
"Father, you're working as hard on this farm as if your living depended on it," said Mrs. Stillwater.
"My living does depend on it; I'd have been under the ground before long, if I hadn't taken to this. I consider every potato which costs me ten dollars, is equivalent to a doctor's pill."
Mrs. Bunker laughed.
"My dear grandmother, a man who works as hard as I'm working on my farm, makes a living and nothing more. I sat in my office and doubled my capital without turning a hand, but that's the pace that kills. Halloa, Glen," as a young, good-looking fellow in knickerbockers opened the gate. "Leave your wheel right there."