anks be!"

"Wall now, Samanthy, you cheat the men-folks out of a heap o' pleasure
bein' so all-fired independent, did ye know it?

"'Tremblin' sinner, calm your fears!
Jesus is always ready.'"

"When 'd you see him last?"

"I hain't seen him sence 'bout noon-time. Warn't he into supper?"

"No. We thought he was off with you. Well, I guess he's gone for the
cow, but I should think he'd be hungry. It's kind o' queer."

Miss Vilda was seated at the open window in the kitchen, and Lady Gay
was enthroned in her lap, sleepy, affectionate, tractable, adorable.

"How would you like to live here at the White Farm, deary?" asked Miss
Vilda.

"O, yet. I yike to live here if Timfy doin' to live here too. I yike oo,
I yike Samfy, I yike Dabe, I yike white tat 'n' white tow 'n' white
bossy 'n' my boofely desses 'n' my boofely dolly 'n' er day hen 'n' I
yikes evelybuddy!"

"But you'd stay here like a nice little girl if Timothy had to go away,
wouldn't you?"

"No, I won't tay like nite ittle dirl if Timfy do 'way. If Timfy do
'way, I do too. I's Timfy's dirl."

"But you're too little to go away with Timothy."

"Ven I ky an keam an kick an hold my bwef--I s'ow you how!"

"No, you needn't show me how," said Vilda hastily. "Who do you love
best, deary, Samanthy or me?"

"I yuv Timfy bet. Lemme twy rit-man-poor-man-bedder-man-fief on your
buckalins, pease."

"Then you'll stay here and be my little girl, will you?"

"Yet, I tay here an' be Timfy's ittle dirl. Now oo p'ay by your own seff
ittle while, Mit Vildy, pease, coz I dot to det down an find Samfy an'
put my dolly to bed coz she's defful seepy."

"It's half past eight," said Samantha coming into the kitchen, "and
Timothy ain't nowheres to be found, and Jabe hain't seen him sence
noon-time."

"You needn't be scared for fear you've lost your bargain," remarked Miss
Vilda sarcastically. "There ain't so many places open to the boy that
he'll turn his back on this one, I guess!"

Yet, though the days of chivalry were over, that was precisely what
Timothy Jessup had done.

Wilkins's Wood was a quiet stretch of timber land that lay along the
banks of Pleasant River; and though the natives (for the most part)
never noticed but that it was paved with asphalt and roofed in with
oilcloth, yet it was, nevertheless, the most tranquil bit of loveliness
in all the country round. For there the river twisted and turned and
sparkled in the sun, and "bent itself in grac