Wesley was regarding her intently, his features relaxing pleasantly at her happy laugh. “No doubt you consider us all as arch-conspirators, Miss Amory,” he said; “but I assure you I knew nothing of this until half an hour ago. Aunt ’Lisbeth is the Guy Fawkes.”
“And I had no idea she could be so deceitful,” replied Florence solemnly. “Have you any gunpowder in your apron pockets, ma’am?”
“Land sakes! no,” said ’Lisbeth, with a puzzled look. “What d’ you s’pose I want with powder? I guess likely Elsie’s got some up ’n his closet; though what on airth”—
Then they all laughed again: they were so simply happy that it did not take much to amuse them.
But Florence soon began to feel her strength failing in the unusual excitement, and was glad to be left alone with her patchwork quilt and her pussy-willows.
She did not see Wesley again until several days later. He was busy mending fences, ’Lisbeth said, “and in the evenin’ he had to do his writin’.”
Florence secretly wondered what his writing could be; but, as ’Lisbeth did not seem disposed to explain, she said nothing. She had noticed the carefulness of the sturdy young farmer’s speech, the final g’s on his present participles, and the even, firm pronunciation of his vowels and consonants, so different from the drawling, carelessly-clipped words of the country-people about. He must have studied hard at some village “academy,” she thought.
People now began to drop in, after the neighborly St. John fashion so out of use in cities. They would settle themselves comfortably in the kitchen rocker, which was usually brought into the front room for company, and, taking a roll of knitting from bag or apron pocket, would keep the needles flying while they talked, though but for five minutes.