"I don't know what's to become of us," repeated Cap'n Ira, wagging a
thoughtful head, his gaze, as that of old people often is, fixed
upon a point too distant for youthful eyes to see.
"I can't see into the future, Ira, any clearer than you can,"
rejoined his wife, glancing at his sagging, blue-coated shoulders
with some gentle apprehension.
She was a frail, little, old woman, one of those women who, after a
robust middle age, seem gradually to shrivel to the figure of what
they were in their youth, but with no charm of girlish lines
remaining. Her face was wrinkled like a russet apple in February,
and it had the colorings of that grateful fruit. She sat on the
stone slab which served for a back door stoop peeling potatoes.
"I swan, Prue, you cut me in two places this mornin' when you shaved
me," said Cap'n Ira suddenly and in some slight exasperation. "And I
can't handle that dratted razor myself."
"Maybe you could get John-Ed Williams to come over and shave you,
Ira."
"John-Ed's got his work to do. Then again, how're we going to pay
him for such jobs? I swan! I can't afford a vally, Prue. Besides,
you need help about the house more than I need a steward. I can get
along without being shaved so frequent, I s'pose, but there's times
when you can't scurce lift a pot of potatoes off the stove.
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