“Law, Lanson! that one ain’t half burnt.”
“But it’ll settle down before another twenty-four hours. I ’low I’d better fetch a few sticks.”
So he came in laden with sections of trees, and built them handily upon the structure of the fire.
“Do you want ary bucket of water?” was his next inquiry.
“No, I’m obleeged to you, Lanson,” replied Wilda. “I fetched a big gourdful from the spring as I come uphill. It saves steps.”
Alanson now unbelted and took off his butternut-colored wamus, and Wilda hung it with his hat on a peg. He had a fine black blanket shawl for meeting, but he was not so reckless as to scratch it through hill underbrush every evening.
Feeling himself now ready for society, Alanson walked over to the trundle-bed and greeted the invalid.
“Good even’, Mis’ Coon; it’s right wintry outdoors.”
She gave him an approving smile. He sat down in the settee and rocked himself, while Wilda pulled a long thread from her spindle, stepped back and gave the wheel a whirl. The trundle-bed, as usual, stood between her and her besieger. A hum, rising and rising like some sweet tune through the pines, filled the room. The great wheel blurred all its spokes, and found them again, and slackened to a slow revolution, as Wilda came back to the spindle.
“How’s your aunt to-day?” she inquired.