Updyke came in, sniffing as usual, and casting a hasty
glance about the room with her cold, restless eyes.
"How d'ye do, Sairay?" she remarked, loosening her shawl. "I thort as
how ye mought be lonesome, so I come over an' brung my knittin' a while;
you got some on hand tew, I s'pose?"
"Well, not knitting, but I've sewing," said Sara, trying to feel
hospitable, and wondering what Mrs. Updyke would think if she should
confess that she scarcely knew the meaning of that word "lonesome." "Let
me take your hood and shawl, won't you?"
"Waal, while I set; is the babby's well as usual?" with a keen glance at
the little fellow, who was happily dragging a pasteboard cart on spool
wheels about the floor.
"Very well, thank you; and grows so fast! He walks nicely now, and can
say 'Monnie,' and 'Mawta,' and 'Wawa,'--that's me,--besides several
other words."
"H'm; got any flannils onto him?" "Oh, yes; I made some out of father's
old ones," with a sigh at the beloved name.
"Ye did, hey? Hope they fit som'ers near."
She now critically examined the room once more; but as it was far neater
than her own, she could not reasonably find any fault there, so started
on a new tack.
"How old's Morton?"
"Twelve next summer.
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