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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
38
“How
do
you
suppose
she
knows
it
is
me?”
said
Mrs.
Todd,
with
a
tender
smile
on
her
broad
face.
“There,
you
never
get
over
bein'
a
child
long's
you
have
a
mother
to
go
to.
Look
at
the
chimney,
now;
she's
gone
right
in
an'
brightened
up
the
fire.
Well,
there,
I'm
glad
mother's
well;
you'll
enjoy
seein'
her
very
much.”
Mrs.
Todd
leaned
back
into
her
proper
position,
and
the
boat
trimmed
again.
She
took
a
firmer
grasp
of
the
sheet,
and
gave
an
impatient
look
up
at
the
gaff
and
the
leech
of
the
little
sail,
and
twitched
the
sheet
as
if
she
urged
the
wind
like
a
horse.
There
came
at
once
a
fresh
gust,
and
we
seemed
to
have
doubled
our
speed.
Soon
we
were
near
enough
to
see
a
tiny
figure
with
handkerchiefed
head
come
down
across
the
field
and
stand
waiting
for
us
at
the
cove
above
a
curve
of
pebble
beach.
Presently
the
dory
grated
on
the
pebbles,
and
Johnny
Bowden,
who
had
been
kept
in
abeyance
during
the
voyage,
sprang
out
and
used
manful
exertions
to
haul
us
up
with
the
next
wave,
so
that
Mrs.
Todd
could
make
a
dry
landing.
“You
don
that
very
well,”
she
said,
mounting
to
her
feet,
and
coming
ashore
somewhat
stiffly,
but
with
great
dignity,
refusing
our
outstretched
hands,
and
returning
to
possess
herself
of
a
bag
which
had
lain
at
her
feet.
“Well,
mother,
here
I
be!”
she
announced
with
indifference;
but
they
stood
and
beamed
in
each
other's
faces.
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