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"Don' rekerlek, massa, it's so long ago." "But make an effort." "Well, Massa Raleigh, 'pears to me I do remember suthin', I do b'lieve yes, dis's jist how 'twas. Spect I might as well make a crean breast ob it. I's alwes had it hangin' roun' my conscious; do'no' but I's done grad to git rid ob it. Alwes spected massa 'd be 'xcusin' Cap o' turnin' tief."
"I been impident to yer. But O, Sarah 'Uggins O, ma'am 'elp me see 'im an' get away, an' I'll bless yer name fur ever and ever! Amen." "Nip in front o' me," said the woman, "and be quick, then! First turnin' to the right down the stairs, an' don't clatter yer boots." Tilda obeyed breathlessly, and found herself in a dark stone stairway.
She put down the squat little glass she had in her hand and stared resentfully at Emma McChesney's cool, fragrant freshness. "Say," she demanded suddenly, "whatja mean by lookin' at me the way you did this morning, h'm? Whatja mean? You got a nerve turnin' up your nose at me, you have. I'll just bet you ain't no better than you might be, neither. What the "
For having survived the fear of Ernest being too aristocratic, she took pride in his worldly possessions and position, and characterised him as "more likely than most, if he only turns out true to name, which in the case of husbands is as rare as bought seed potatoes turnin' out what they're supposed to be; but there ain't any good of meeting troubles half-way."
I've been turnin' out another school of swordfish and whales, too. Why don't you run in and look 'em over?" She clapped her hands. "Oh, may I?" she cried. "I've wanted to ever and ever so much, but Mamma said not to because it might annoy you. Wouldn't it annoy you, TRULY?" "Not a bit." "Oh, goody! And might Petunia come, too?" "Um-hm. Only," gravely, "she'll have to promise not to talk too much.
"No that weel, and no that ill. The faimily's rather sair upo' her. But I canna haud her oot o' the chop for a' that. She's like mysel' she wad aye be turnin' a bawbee. But what are ye gaein to do yersel', Marget?" "I'm gaein to my uncle and aunt auld John Peterson and his wife. They're gey and frail noo, and they want somebody to luik efter them."
She hesitated a moment. "'Tis a hard thing for a woman to say. . . . But maybe 'tis turnin' out you are?" she suggested brightly. "Turnin' out?" "That would simplify things, o' course. And everybody knowin' that Pamphlett's served you with a notice to quit " But thereupon Nicky-Nan exploded. "Served me with a notice, did he? Pamphlett! . . . Well, yes he did, if you want to know.
Then, turnin' to Sadie, "A wonderful writer of letters, Madam, one every month!" "Then you knew about little Carlos?" puts in Lindy. "It was a pity. Such lovely big black eyes. He was nearly two. I wish you could have seen him." "I also had regret," says Carlos. "I read that letter many times.
"But," sez I, "don't you believe that Wellington would ruther have S. Annie and the children settled down in a good little home with sumthin' left to take care of 'em, than to have all this money spent in perfectly useless things?" "Useless!" sez Cephas, turnin' red. "Why," sez he, "if you wuzn't a near relation I should resent that speech bitterly."
It was certainly pretty hard work, but then he must be prepared for that, and after all he was earning money for his mother. Still the time did seem long. The scythe was so intolerably dull that it took a long time to make any impression upon it. "Kinder hard turnin', ain't it?" said the deacon. "Yes," said Andy. "This scythe ain't been sharpened for ever so long. It's as dull as a hoe."
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