"Yes. Only the white valance is to put to the bed; I'm done then,"—going on silently for a while.
"I've been so long at it,"—catching her breath. "Hard scrapin', the first years. We'd only a lease on the place at first. It's ours now, an' it's stocked, an'—Don't thee think the house is snug itself, Andrew? Thee sees other houses. Is't home-like lookin'? Good for rest"—
"Yes, surely. What are you so anxious an' wild about, Jane? It's yer own house."
"I'm not anxious,"—trying to calm herself. "Mine, is it, lad? All mine; nobody sharin' in it."
She laughed. In all these years he had never heard her laugh before; it was low and full-hearted,—a live, real laugh. Somehow, all comfort, home, and frolic in the coming years were promised in it.
"Mine?" folding up her duster. "Well, lad, thee says so. Daily savin' of the cents got it. Maybe thee thought me a hard woman?"—with an anxious look. "I kept all the accounts of it in that blue book I burned to-night. Nobody must know what it cost. No. Thee'd best go to sleep, lad. I've an hour's more work, I think. There'll be no time for it to-morrow, bein' the last day."
He did not like to leave her so feverish and unlike herself.
"Well, good night, then."
"Good night, Andrew. Mine, eh?"—her face flushing. "Thee'll know to-morrow. Thee thinks it looks comfortable?"—holding his hand anxiously. "Heartsome? Mis' Hale called the place that the other day. I was so glad to hear that! Well, good night. I think it does."