They say you'll repent it if you stay, an'
there'll be a hurrah-boys all round. What say to makin' us a visit?
That'll kind o' stave it off, an' then we can see what's best to be
done."
Lucy Ann put her hands to her delicate throat, where her mother's gold
beads lay lightly, with a significant touch. She, like John, had an
innate gentleness of disposition. She distrusted her own power to
judge.
"Maybe I might," said she faintly. "Oh, John, do you think I've got
to?"
"It needn't be for long," answered John briefly, though he felt his
eyes moist with pity of her. "Mebbe you could stay a month?"
"Oh, I couldn't do that!" cried Lucy Ann, in wild denial. "I never
could in the world. If you'll make it a fortnight, an' harness up
yourself, an' bring me home, mebbe I might."
John gave his word, but when he took his leave of her, she leaned
forward into the dark, where the impatient horse was fretting, and made
her last condition.
"You'll let me turn the key on things here jest as they be? You won't
ask me to break up nuthin'?"
"Break up!" repeated John, with the intensity of an oath. "I guess you
needn't. If anybody puts that on you, you send 'em to me."
So Lucy Ann packed her mother's dresses into a little hair trunk that
had stood in the attic unused for many years, and went away to make her
visit.
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