“I don’t see why you call it gloomy.  It wasn’t only for your sake that I said it.  I think it is the nicest old house I ever saw.  And then the books, and—­and—­you.”  Julia stumbled a little, she was not accustomed to make speeches of this sort.

“You flatterer!” burst out Andrew.  “But no, you must have your own house.”

Mrs. Anderson, on her part, had concluded to make the best of it.  Julia already married and the mistress of the Anderson river farm was quite a different thing from Julia under her thumb.  She was to be conciliated.  Besides, Mrs. Anderson did not want Julia’s prosperity to be a lifelong source of humiliation to her.  She must take some stock in it at the start.

“Jule,” she said, as her daughter re-entered the door, “I can let you have two feather-beds and four pillows, and a good stock of linen and blankets.  And you can have the two heifers and the sorrel colt.”

The two “heifers” were six, and the sorrel “colt” was seven years of age; but descriptive names often outlive the qualities to which they owed their origin.  Just as a judge is even yet addressed as “your honor,” and many a governor without anything to recommend him hears himself called “your excellency.”

When Abigail surrendered in this graceful fashion, Julia was touched, and was on the point of putting her arms around her mother and kissing her.  But Mrs. Anderson was not a person easily caressed, and Julia did not yield to her impulse.

“Cynthy Ann, my dear,” said Jonas, as they walked home that evening, “do you know what Abig’il Anderson reminds me of?”

No; Cynthy Ann didn’t exactly know.  In fact, it would have been difficult for anybody to have told what anything was likely to remind Jonas of.  There was no knowing what a thing might not suggest to him.

“Well, Cynthy, my Imperial Sweetness, when I see Abig’il come down so beautiful, it reminded me of a little fice-t dog I had when I was a leetle codger.  I called him Pick.  His name was Picayune.  Purty good name, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Well, now, that air little Pick wouldn’t never own up as he was driv outen the house.  When he was whipped out, he wouldn’t never tuck his tail down, but curl it up over his back, and run acrost the yard and through the fence and down the road a-barkin’ fit to kill.  Wanted to let on like as ef he’d run out of his own accord, with malice aforethought, you know. That’s Abig’il.”

CHAPTER XLV.

NEW PLANS.

Except Abigail Anderson and one other person, everybody in the little world of Clark township approved mightily the justice and disinterestedness of Andrew.  He had righted himself and Julia at a stroke, and people dearly love to have justice dealt out when it is not at their own expense.  Samuel, who cherished in secret a great love for his daughter, was more than pleased that affairs had turned out in this way.  But there was one beside Abigail who was not wholly satisfied.  August spent half the night in protesting in vain against Andrew’s transfer of the river-farm to him.  But Andrew said he had a right to give away his own if he chose.  And there was no turning him.  For if August refused a share in it, he would give it to Julia, and if she refused it, he would find somebody who would accept it.