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1
148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
134
“You
must
miss
her
very
much?”
I
said
at
last.
“I
do
miss
her,”
he
answered,
and
sighed
again.
“Folks
all
kep'
repeatin'
that
time
would
ease
me,
but
I
can't
find
it
does.
No,
I
miss
her
just
the
same
every
day.”
“How
long
is
it
since
she
died?”
I
asked.
“Eight
year
now,
come
the
first
of
October.
It
don't
seem
near
so
long.
I've
got
a
sister
that
comes
and
stops
'long
o'
me
a
little
spell,
spring
an'
fall,
an'
odd
times
if
I
send
after
her.
I
ain't
near
so
good
a
hand
to
sew
as
I
be
to
knit,
and
she's
very
quick
to
set
everything
to
rights.
She's
a
married
woman
with
a
family;
her
son's
folks
lives
at
home,
an'
I
can't
make
no
great
claim
on
her
time.
But
it
makes
me
a
kind
o'
good
excuse,
when
I
do
send,
to
help
her
a
little;
she
ain't
none
too
well
off.
Poor
dear
always
liked
her,
and
we
used
to
contrive
our
ways
together.
'Tis
full
as
easy
to
be
alone.
I
set
here
an'
think
it
all
over,
an'
think
considerable
when
the
weather's
bad
to
go
outside.
I
get
so
some
days
it
feels
as
if
poor
dear
might
step
right
back
into
this
kitchen.
I
keep
a-watchin'
them
doors
as
if
she
might
step
in
to
ary
one.
Yes,
ma'am,
I
keep
a-lookin'
off
an'
droppin'
o'
my
stitches;
that's
just
how
it
seems.
I
can't
git
over
losin'
of
her
no
way
nor
no
how.
Yes,
ma'am,
that's
just
how
it
seems
to
me.”
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