“She doesn't live at your house,” pursued the child. “She lives at papa's house.”
“Where is papa's house?” inquired the lawyer helping himself to bread as if that were the chief object of his thoughts.
“It's away off. Away over the woods.”
“And what's papa's name?”
Carrie appeared to consider the questioner rather than the question, and for some unexpressed reason, remained silent.
“Mother,” said the Quaker from the abundant goodness of his heart, “doesn't thee mind that damson p'serve thee never let's me have unless I take the ag'y and shake for it? Some of that would limber a little girl's tongue, doesn't thee think?”
“It's in the far pantry on a high shelf,” said the woman of the house, demurring slightly.
“I can reach it down.”
“No, I'll bring it myself. The jars are too crowded on that shelf for a man's hands to be turned loose among 'em.”
The Quaker smiled, sparkling considerably under his gray eyebrows while his wife took another light and went after the damson preserve. She had been gone but a moment when knocking began at the front door, and the Quaker rose at once from his place to answer it.