"Well, then, no more trouble, but somebody to take care of us all the time. Whenever I see a preacher, now, I think of father"—stopping abruptly, with that anxious, incisive look so sad to see on a child's face.
She did not reply at first; then,—
"He preached God's word as he knew it," she said, dryly.
"And whenever I hear of a good, brave man, I think, 'That's like father!'"
Her eyes opened now.
"That's true, Jemmy! God knows that's true! So proud my boy will be of his father!"
She did not say anything more, but began playing with his hair, her month unsteady, and a bashful, dreamy smile in her eyes. She looked very young and girlish in the mellow light.
"He's not coarse like me, Jem," she said at last. "Even more like a woman in some ways. He always came nearer to you children, for instance; I mind how you always used to creep away from me close to him at night. He hates noise, Stephen does,—and mean, scraping ways, such as we're used to, being poor. My boy'll mind that? We'll keep anything shabby out of his sight, when he comes back."
"I'll mind," said Jem, dryly. "But—Well, no matter. We're to try and be like him, Tom and I? I understand."
She drew down her head suddenly into the pillow. Jem had been growing sleepy, but he started wide awake now, trying to see her face: the pretty pink color his questions had brought was gone from it.