'The best choice in both cases,' said she. 'Any one can see you are not expert enough to make a successful trader. Ask August if a man must not have a talent for trade, just as an artist must have a genius for painting.'
'Then you think August a born trader?'
'I know he can do more than one thing well,' she answered.
'If you think so well of August,' said he, 'I don't see how you can think better of another fellow. The town couldn't contain him if he heard what you said just now.'
Josephine turned a page of her book.
'He knows perfectly well what I think of him, Paul.'
The very frankness of her words and manner misled the boy. The curious suspicion that for a moment had beset him fled fast before his laughter.
She went on reading—seemed to do so. But an image for which the writer of that book was not responsible stood, all the while, clear and immovable in her memory. Before her, in a rude shed, were a boy and a girl. The girl had a basket in her hand, filled with chips, which she had raked from the sawdust; the boy was offering her assistance; but he knew well enough there was no wood to be sawn or split. It was growing dark and cold within the house, and still more dismal without it. The hearts of these two are warmer than their hands.
'I've done it,' said the boy. 'I brought my books home last night, Josey, and I'm going to my uncle in the morning.'
'What did he say?'