She enjoyed
talking to this stalwart, vigorous fellow. She was alive to the last
fibre of her being to the influence of masculine perfections, and
Stanton was a splendidly built type of manhood. She utilized the
moments and secured an excuse for lingering by going on with her work
while the carpenter continued his, carrying out her theory of getting
the most out of a laborer by personal supervision, and withal
gratifying her intense and instinctive fondness for the presence of a
magnificent man.
"You are not city bred, perhaps," she answered his last remark, for the
sake of saying something.
"Oh, no, ma'am," John answered. "I was raised at Feltonville."
The widow became alert at once.
"Feltonville?" she repeated. "Why, I have a cousin living there, the
Hon. Thomas Greenfield."
"Oh, Tom Greenfield. Everybody knows Tom Greenfield," John said, his
face lighting up. "We call him 'Honest Tom' up our way. He's here in
the Legislature now."
"Yes, I know he is. He's coming here to dinner to-night."
"Is he? He's an awful smart man, and he's a good one, too, as ever
walked. He's awful interested in Orin's getting the job to make the new
statue of _America_. Orin," he added in explanation, "Orin Stanton,
he's the sculptor and he's my brother; my half-brother, that is. You've
heard of him?"
"Oh, of course," she answered, warmly.
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