"Goes slick, don't it?" murmured the man.
There was no answer. The woman's eyes were hungrily devouring the last
glimpse of paint and polish.
"An' we hain't been on 'em 't all yet, have we, Abby?" he continued.
She drew a long breath.
"Well, ye see, I--I hain't had time, Hezekiah," she rejoined
apologetically.
"Humph!" muttered the old man as they turned and walked back to their
seats.
For a time neither spoke, then Hezekiah Warden cleared his throat
determinedly and faced his wife.
"Look a' here, Abby," he began, "I'm agoin' ter say somethin' that has
been 'most tumblin' off'n the end of my tongue fer mor'n a year. Jennie
an' Frank are good an' kind an' they mean well, but they think 'cause
our hair's white an' our feet ain't quite so lively as they once was,
that we're jest as good as buried already, an' that we don't need
anythin' more excitin' than a nap in the sun. Now, Abby,
didn'tye want ter go ter that fair with the folks ter-day? Didn't ye?"
A swift flush came into the woman's cheek.
"Why, Hezekiah, it's ever so much cooler here, an'--" she paused
helplessly.
"Humph!" retorted the man, "I thought as much. It's always 'nice an'
cool' here in summer an' 'nice an' warm' here in winter when Jennie goes
somewheres that you want ter go an' don't take ye.
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