"I didn't do nothing!" said Phil, blurting out,—"and he went and took all my nuts away. He's the devil!"
The boy looked at the minute as if he was a young one.
"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Somers. "You—you oughtn't to speak that way—don't you know? it's not proper."
"I hope he boxed your ears first," said Mrs. Somers—"I'm certain you deserved it. What made him take your nuts away?"
"He wanted 'em to make a present to you"—said the boy; and with another glance at the hands of the clock, he darted out of the house and down the road towards the schoolhouse, as if truly he had expected to meet there the character he had mentioned.
"My dear—" said Mr. Somers—"do you think it is quite—a—politic, to tell Mrs. Davids she don't bring up her children right? Mrs. Davids is a very respectable woman—and so is Farmer Davids—none more so."
"I don't know what you call respectable women—" said Mrs. Somers—"I should be sorry to think he was. But I just wish, Mr. Somers, that you would preach a sermon to the people about cutting off their children's tongues if they can't keep them in order. I declare! I could hardly keep hands off that boy."
And with this suggested and suggestive text, Mr. Somers retired to his study.
It had been a busy day with more than Mr. Somers, when towards the close of the afternoon Faith came out upon the porch of her mother's house. She had not read more than one delicious bit of her letter on the ride home from Neanticut; the light failed too soon. After getting home there was no more chance. Saturday night, that Saturday, had a crowd of affairs. And Monday had been a day full of business. Faith had got through with it all at last; and now, as fresh as if the kitchen had been a bygone institution—though that was as true of Faith in the kitchen as out of it—she sat down in the afternoon glow to read the letter. The porch was nice to match; she took a low seat on the step, and laying the letter in her lap rested her elbow on the yellow floor of the porch to take it at full ease.
It was not just such a letter as is most often found in biographies,—yet such as may be found—'out of print.' A bright medley of description and fancy—mountains and legends and scraps of song forming a mosaic of no set pattern. And well-read as the writer was in other respects, it was plain that she was also learned in both the books Faith had had at Neanticut. The quick flow of the letter was only checked now and then by a little word-gesture of affection,—if that could be called a check, which gave to the written pictures a better glow than lit up the originals.