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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
133
“You
haven't
been
to
sea
for
nothing,”
I
said
laughing.
“One
trade
helps
another,”
said
Elijah
with
an
amiable
smile.
“Come
right
in
an'
set
down.
Come
in
an'
rest
ye,”
he
exclaimed,
and
led
the
way
into
his
comfortable
kitchen.
The
sunshine
poured
in
at
the
two
further
windows,
and
a
cat
was
curled
up
sound
asleep
on
the
table
that
stood
between
them.
There
was
a
new-looking
light
oilcloth
of
a
tiled
pattern
on
the
floor,
and
a
crockery
teapot,
large
for
a
household
of
only
one
person,
stood
on
the
bright
stove.
I
ventured
to
say
that
somebody
must
be
a
very
good
housekeeper.
“That's
me,”
acknowledged
the
old
fisherman
with
frankness.
“There
ain't
nobody
here
but
me.
I
try
to
keep
things
looking
right,
same's
poor
dear
left
'em.
You
set
down
here
in
this
chair,
then
you
can
look
off
an'
see
the
water.
None
on
'em
thought
I
was
goin'
to
get
along
alone,
no
way,
but
I
wa'n't
goin'
to
have
my
house
turned
upsi'
down
an'
all
changed
about;
no,
not
to
please
nobody.
I
was
the
only
one
knew
just
how
she
liked
to
have
things
set,
poor
dear,
an'
I
said
I
was
goin'
to
make
shift,
and
I
have
made
shift.
I'd
rather
tough
it
out
alone.”
And
he
sighed
heavily,
as
if
to
sigh
were
his
familiar
consolation.
We
were
both
silent
for
a
minute;
the
old
man
looked
out
the
window,
as
if
he
had
forgotten
I
was
there.
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