“She ought to got a man like me,” he observed humorously.
Then the topic was usually diverted into the lives of other Rocky Forkers until Alanson felt it was time to go home.
But to-night, after drawing out his silver watch by its steel log-chain, he lingered uneasily instead of rising from the settee and saying, “Well, I better be moseying towards home.”
The flashing of Wilda’s needles went on. She had a leather stall pinned to her waist, in which she braced and steadied the most rampant needle as he led the gallop around the stocking. Sweetness slept as a spirit may sleep who has escaped the bounds of care, her sunken little mouth and wrinkled eye-corners steadily smiling.
“Going to have any Christmas up here to-morrow?” inquired Alanson, with a sheepish look at Wilda.
“I got a Christmas gift for her,” replied Wilda fondly. Alanson understood the pronouns which always stood for mother.
“Well, now, it’s funny,” said he. “But I got something for her, too.”
“Why, Lanson! What ever put you up to do such a thing?” Wilda paused with her needle held back in mid plunge.
“’Tisn’t much,” apologized Alanson, and he brought his wamus from the peg to the hearth. Wilda had noticed it was laden when she hung it up, but she always discreetly overlooked the apples he brought until he made his offering.
There were no apples in the wamus pockets this time. Alanson took out two packets, and opened one which he laid on Wilda’s knee. It was a pound of red hearts.