He wrote for the papers. He was always
receiving through the mail envelopes marked "author's proofs," which,
the postmistress said, indicated that he was an author, whatever proofs
might be. She had an idea they might have something to do with
photographs; perhaps his picture was going into a book. It was very
well understood that teaching school at the Hollow, at seven dollars a
week, was an interlude in the life of one who would some day write a
spelling-book, or exercise senatorial rights at Washington. He was a
long-legged, pleasant looking youth, with a pale cheek, dark eyes, and
thick black hair, one lock of which, hanging low over his forehead, he
twisted while he read. He kept glancing up at Miss Susan and smiling at
her, whenever he could look away from his book and the fire, and she
smiled back. At last, after many such wordless messages, he spoke.
"What lots of red mittens you do knit! Do you send them all away to
that society?"
Miss Susan's needles clicked.
"Every one," said she.
She was a tall, large woman, well-knit, with no superfluous flesh. Her
head was finely set, and she carried it with a simple unconsciousness
better than dignity. Everybody in Tiverton thought it had been a great
cross to Susan Peavey to be so overgrown.
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