"I tell him I don't sell it to no one but a Simlins—nor that neither till I can't live in it no longer myself."
"Is that your fault—or Judge Harrison's?" said Mr. Linden, setting the basket of Stoutenburgh Sweetings on the little table in the full light of the lamp. "Miss Faith, if those are 'sweetenings,' they may as well do their office."
The farmer sat with his elbows on his knees, touching the tips of his fingers together in thoughtful fashion, and softly blowing the breath through his lips in a way that might have reached the dignity of a whistle if it had had a trifle more of musicalness.
"Is them the sort of lessons you give in school?" he said at length without stirring.
"Why?" said Mr. Linden with a little bit of a smile.
"Ingen-uous," said Mr. Simlins. "It's as good as a book, Mrs. Derrick," added he glancing up at the rocking chair, "is Squire Deacon wantin' to buy your house?"
"My!" said Mrs. Derrick, again laying down her knitting, "can't he be content with his own? I hope he don't want ours," she added, some fear mingling with her surprise.
"Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "do you think if I gave you an apple you would give me a knife?"
"I hope he don't," growled Mr. Simlins as he rose up. "I never heerd that he did. Miss Faith—them Stoutenburgh Sweetings is good eatin'." Faith after setting a pile of plates and knives on the table, had taken up her stocking again.
"Yes Mr. Simlins—I know they are."