For the life and soul of him, Tom could get no further in his
writing than, 'A respectable young man, aged thirty-five,' and this,
notwithstanding the show she made of being supernaturally quiet, and
going about on tiptoe, lest she should disturb him; which only served
as an additional means of distracting his attention, and keeping it upon
her.
'Tom,' she said at last, in high glee. 'Tom!'
'What now?' said Tom, repeating to himself, 'aged thirty-five!'
'Will you look here a moment, please?'
As if he hadn't been looking all the time!
'I am going to begin, Tom. Don't you wonder why I butter the inside of
the basin?' said his busy little sister.
'Not more than you do, I dare say,' replied Tom, laughing. 'For I
believe you don't know anything about it.'
'What an infidel you are, Tom! How else do you think it would turn out
easily when it was done! For a civil-engineer and land-surveyor not to
know that! My goodness, Tom!'
It was wholly out of the question to try to write. Tom lined out
'respectable young man, aged thirty-five;' and sat looking on, pen in
hand, with one of the most loving smiles imaginable.
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