He held it
awkwardly and timidly as if it were a live reptile. She took his clumsy
hand in hers and showed him how to hold it.
"My, but yo' hand's soft an' sweet, Nancy,--jest lemme hold that a
while----"
She rapped his knuckles.
"All right, teacher, I'll be good," he protested, and bent his huge
shoulders low over his task. He bore so hard on the frail quill pen the
ink ran in a big blot.
"Not so hard, Tom!" she cried.
"But I got so much strenk in my right arm I jist can't hold it back."
"You must try again."
He tried again and made a heavy tremulous line. His arm moved at a
snail's gait and wobbled frightfully.
"Make the line quicker," she urged encouragingly. "Begin at the top and
come down----"
"Here, you show me how!"
She took his rough hand quietly in hers, and guided it swiftly from
right to left in straight smooth lines until a dozen were made, when he
suddenly drew her close, kissed her lips, and held the slender fingers
in a grip of iron. She lay still in his embrace for a moment, released
herself and turned from him with a sigh. He drew her quickly to the
light of the fire and saw the unshed tears in her eyes.
"What's the use ter worry, Nancy gal?" he said. "Give it up ez a bad
job. I wouldn't fool with no sech scholar ef I wuz you. Ye can't teach
an old dog new tricks----"
"I won't give up!" she cried with sudden energy.
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