"I was hardly ever about the house in those days, Lulie: I suppose that was why I didn't mind it."
"Why weren't you about the house much in those days, Charlie?"
"Because you weren't in it, you witch, I suppose."
This was such a decided triumph over the old lady of the portrait that I could afford to be amiable; so, giving him a spasmodic little hug and an energetic little kiss, I went out and stopped the spinning nuisance immediately.
After that the hobby went slower and slower, feebler and feebler. One more energetic display of my bogus spirit and "the enemy was mine."
Winter came on in its duly-appointed time, bringing with it the usual quantity of wild ducks and more than the usual degree of severe cold. Charlie was an inveterate duck-shooter, and with the return of the season came the return of mud and dirt in my bowls.
I determined to do as mother did. A tin basin made its appearance on the back gallery, four yards of crash sewed together at the end were made to revolve over the roller, and by way of forcing the experiment to a successful issue orders were given that my own pitchers should be filled only after nightfall.
I was sitting in my bed-room sewing away, in placid unconsciousness of outside cold and discomfort, when Charlie got home from his first hunt of the season.
"No water, Lulie?" and the monster took hold of my nice pitcher with a pair of muddy, half-frozen hands.
"On the gallery, dear, just where mother used to keep it;" and I smiled up at him angelically.