He whistled a lively tune as he
bent to his work again.
'Yer sister says ye're a splendid scholar!' said he. 'Hear'n 'er braggin'
'bout ye t'other night; she thinks a good deal o' her brother, I can
tell ye. Guess I know what she's gain' t' give ye Crissmus.'
'What's that?' I asked, with a curiosity more youthful than becoming.
'Don't ye never let on,' said he.
'Never,' said I.
'Hear'n 'em tell,' he said,' 'twas a gol' lockup, with 'er pictur' in it'
'Oh, a locket!' I exclaimed.
'That's it,' he replied, 'an' pure gol', too.'
I turned to go.
'Hope she'll grow up a savin' woman,' he remarked. ''Fraid she
won't never be very good t' worlt.'
'Why not?' I enquired.
'Han's are too little an' white,' he answered.
'She won't have to,' I said.
He cackled uproariously for a moment, then grew serious.
'Her father's rich,' he said, 'the richest man o' Faraway, an I guess
she won't never hev anything t' dew but set'n sing an' play the
melodium.'
'She can do as she likes,' I said.
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