"My girl is going by
the school-house door this very minute. Now you help me. Take the
school for the rest of the afternoon."
"Your girl?" cried Perry. His voice broke from the smothered
conference tone and the school heard it and tittered. He recovered
himself and poked me in the chest.
"Oh!" he said, "Widow Spoonholler--I seen you last Sunday singin' often
the same book--I seen you. Hurry, Mark, hurry; and luck to you!
You've done me most a mighty good turn."
X
Mary sat knitting. Beware of a woman who knits. The keenest lawyer in
our county is not so clever a cross-examiner as his sister when she
sits with her needles and yarn. Questions directed at one can be
parried. You expect them and dodge. The woman knits and knits, and
lulls you half to sleep, and then in a far-away voice asks questions.
They come as a boon, a gracious acknowledgment that you exist, and
though in her mind your place is secondary to the flying needles and
the tangled worsted, still you are there and she is half listening to
what you have to say.
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