some day write a
spelling-book, or exercise senatorial rights at Washington. He was a
long-legged, pleasant looking youth, with a pale cheek, dark eyes, and
thick black hair, one lock of which, hanging low over his forehead, he
twisted while he read. He kept glancing up at Miss Susan and smiling at
her, whenever he could look away from his book and the fire, and she
smiled back. At last, after many such wordless messages, he spoke.

"What lots of red mittens you do knit! Do you send them all away to that
society?"

Miss Susan's needles clicked.

"Every one," said she.

She was a tall, large woman, well-knit, with no superfluous flesh. Her
head was finely set, and she carried it with a simple unconsciousness
better than dignity. Everybody in Tiverton thought it had been a great
cross to Susan Peavey to be so overgrown. They conceded that it was a
mystery she had not turned out "gormin'." But that was because Susan had
left her vanity behind with early youth, in the days when, all legs and
arms, she had given up the idea of beauty. Her face was strong-featured,
overspread by a healthy color, and her eyes looked frankly out, as if
assured of finding a very pleasant world. The sick always delighted in
Susan's nearness; her magnificent health and presence were like a
supporting tide, and she seemed to carry outdoor air in her very
garments. The schoolmaster still watched her. She rested and fascinated
him at once by her strength and homely charm.

"I shall call you the Orphans' Friend," said he.

She laid down her work.

"Don't you say one word," she answered, with an air of abject
confession. "It don't interest me a mite! I give because it's my bounden
duty, but I'll be whipped if I want to knit warm mittens all my life,
an' fill poor barrels. Sometimes I wisht I could git a chance to provide
folks with what they don't need ruther'n what they do."

"I don't see what you mean," said the schoolmaster. "Tell me."

Miss Susan was looking at the hearth. A warmer flush than that of
firelight alone lay on her cheek. She bent forward and threw on a pine
knot. It blazed richly. Then she drew the cricket more securely under
her feet, and settled herself to gossip.

"Anybody'd think I'd most talked myself out sence you come here to
board," said she, "but you're the beatemest for tolin' anybody on. I
never knew I had so much to say. But there! I guess we all have, if
there's anybody 't wants to listen. I never've said this