My name is Marcus
Wilkeson."
The mechanic's face assumed a pleasanter expression. "Perhaps," said he,
"you are the gentleman that I have sometimes seen sitting with a book,
in a window covered with grape vines?"
"I am," returned Marcus.
"As a scholar, then--as one who is superior to mean motives and vulgar
curiosity--you are welcome to my poor home. Pray, walk in, sir. Pet,
give the gentleman a chair."
The girl, whose face had been clouded during the first part of this
conversation, brightened up at its close, and obeyed her father with
alacrity, brushing the clean chair with her handkerchief, to make it the
more acceptable to their visitor. She also took his hat and cane, and
placed them carefully away.
The room was simply but neatly furnished, and very clean. The hand of
taste and order was everywhere visible. Snow-white curtains festooned
the two small windows, and concealed all of a turn-up bedstead but two
of its legs. A small array of white crockery shone from an open closet;
and a squat-looking stove, which made the apartment agreeably warm, was
smartly polished, and was evaporating cheerful music out of a bright
teakettle.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70