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Updated: May 12, 2025
The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more. "Ain't I jist!" she said, in a hoarse voice. "Jist ain't I!" "Haven't you had any dinner?" said Sara. "No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more shuffling, "nor yet no bre'fast nor yet no supper nor nothin'." "Since when?" asked Sara. "Dun'no. Never got nothin' to-day nowhere. I've axed and axed."
"Now I shouldn't be a mite surprised if Ann paid as much as one an' sixpence for this silk when 'twas new; but look at it now there ain't a break in it. It's as good as your blue-and-yellow changeable silk, Imogen." "Dun'no' but 'tis," said Imogen, reflectively. Sarah went with Elmira to the mantua-maker's, who lived in the next house, to get the dress cut, while Imogen prepared the dinner.
"Well, I dun'no' when I've been in there, an' I dun'no' but she'd think it was kinder queer if I went right into the house and didn't go near her." Amanda arose, letting the mat slide to the floor, and went into the bedroom to get Mrs. Babcock's bonnet and light shawl. "I wish you wouldn't be in such a hurry," said she, using the village formula of hospitality to a departing guest.
"Next week, if I'm able, but I dun'no' whether I can stay there longer than till spring. It's damned hot up there under the roof." The man who spoke had a leaden hue of face, something ghastly, as if the deadly heat had begun a work of decomposition.
Pretty spry for a sick one, eh? Pretty slick! I knew you was lying, girl." "I been sick as a dog, Max. Loo can tell you." "What's got you? Thigh?" "God! I dun'no'! I dun'no'!" She paused in the center of the room, her lips trembling and the light from the chandelier raining full upon her.
"I dun'no'," he said to her, "as a man better feel too uppity 'bout becomin' a pa. It's an awful solemn undertakin', an' the more you think it over the solemner it gets. Seems to me it's somethin' like playin' the fiddle. There can't jest anybody rush in an' play a real good time on a fiddle takes a terrible lot o' preparin' 'n' hard work to tech them little strings to music.
It's good 'nough for anybody, I don't care who 'tis, if it's Doctor Prescott, or Squire Merritt, or the minister. You'd better be thankful for it, both of you." "Where's father?" said Jerome. "He 'ain't come home yet. I dun'no' where he is. He's been gone long enough to draw ten cords of wood. I s'pose he's potterin' round somewheres stopped to talk to somebody, or something.
"If that young feller comes into money, an' gives it away, I'll do more than give away a quarter of my property I'll believe anything after that. I'll get religion. But I won't agree to do that unless you back me up, doctor. That ought to induce you the prospect of savin' a brand from the burnin'; an' if I ain't a brand, I dun'no' who is."
"Why didn't you come on the coach, Abel, when you had all that money?" asked Ann, pitifully. "I wonder it hadn't killed you." "Do you suppose I was goin' to spend that money for coach hire? You dun'no' how awful hard it come, mother," replied the old man. He closed his eyes as he spoke; he was weary almost to death. "He'll go to sleep again if you don't talk, mother," Jerome whispered.
"I dun'no', suh!" It was a gasping whisper. The master gripped her shoulder, and with a maddened roar he cried her name "Aggie!" The woman sank down. Perhaps his grasp forced her down. "'Fo' Gawd!" she cried "'fo Gawd, Mass Johnnie, I dun'no'!" holding up beseeching hands between herself and the awful glare of his eyes. "I'll tell you, suh, Mass Johnnie, I'll tell you!" crouching away from him.
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