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1
148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
60
“Perhaps
she
has
had
her
supper,”
I
ventured
to
suggest,
sharing
the
housekeeper's
anxiety,
and
meekly
conscious
of
an
inconsiderate
appetite
for
my
own
supper
after
a
long
expedition
up
the
bay.
There
were
so
few
emergencies
of
any
sort
at
Dunnet
Landing
that
this
one
appeared
overwhelming.
“No,
she's
rode
'way
over
from
Nahum
Brayton's
place.
I
expect
they
were
busy
on
the
farm,
and
couldn't
spare
the
horse
in
proper
season.
You
just
sly
out
an'
set
the
teakittle
on
again,
dear,
an'
drop
in
a
good
han'ful
o'
chips;
the
fire's
all
alive.
I'll
take
her
right
up
to
lay
off
her
things,
as
she'll
be
occupied
with
explanations
an'
gettin'
her
bunnit
off,
so
you'll
have
plenty
o'
time.
She's
one
I
shouldn't
like
to
have
find
me
unprepared.”
Mrs.
Fosdick
was
already
at
the
gate,
and
Mrs.
Todd
now
turned
with
an
air
of
complete
surprise
and
delight
to
welcome
her.
“Why,
Susan
Fosdick,”
I
heard
her
exclaim
in
a
fine
unhindered
voice,
as
if
she
were
calling
across
a
field,
“I
come
near
giving
of
you
up!
I
was
afraid
you'd
gone
an'
'portioned
out
my
visit
to
somebody
else.
I
s'pose
you've
been
to
supper?”
“Lor',
no,
I
ain't,
Almiry
Todd,”
said
Mrs.
Fosdick
cheerfully,
as
she
turned,
laden
with
bags
and
bundles,
from
making
her
adieux
to
the
boy
driver.
“I
ain't
had
a
mite
o'
supper,
dear.
I've
been
lottin'
all
the
way
on
a
cup
o'
that
best
tea
o'
yourn,--some
o'
that
Oolong
you
keep
in
the
little
chist.
I
don't
want
none
o'
your
useful
herbs.”
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