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A Native Of Winby
by
“There are a hundred and six volumes now,” announced the proud owner of such a library. “I lend ’em all I can, or most of them would look better. I have had to wait a good while for some, and some weren’t what I expected ’em to be, but most of ’em’s as good books as there is in the world. I’ve never been so situated that it seemed best for me to indulge in a daily paper, and I don’t know but it’s just as well; but stories were never any great of a temptation. I know pretty well what’s goin’ on about me, and I can make that do. Real life’s interestin’ enough for me.”
Mr. Laneway was still looking over the books. His heart smote him for not being thoughtful; he knew well enough that the overflow of his own library would have been delightful to this self-denying, eager-minded soul. “I’ve been a very busy man all my life, Abby,” he said impulsively, as if she waited for some apology for his forgetfulness, “but I’ll see to it now that you have what you want to read. I don’t mean to lose hold of your advice on state matters.” They both laughed, and he added, “I’ve always thought of you, if I haven’t shown it.”
“There’s more time to read than there used to be; I’ve had what was best for me,” answered the woman gently, with a grateful look on her face, as she turned to glance at her old friend. “Marilla takes hold wonderfully and helps me with the work. In the long winter evenings you can’t think what a treat a new book is. I wouldn’t change places with the queen.”
They had come back to the kitchen, and she stood before the cupboard, reaching high for two old gayly striped crockery mugs. There were some doughnuts and cheese at hand; their early supper seemed quite forgotten. The kitchen was warm, and they had talked themselves thirsty and hungry; but with what an unexpected tang the cider freshened their throats! Mrs. Hender had picked the apples herself that went to the press; they were all chosen from the old russet tree and the gnarly, red-cheeked, ungrafted fruit that grew along the lane. The flavor made one think of frosty autumn mornings on high hillsides, of north winds and sunny skies. “It ‘livens one to the heart,” as Mrs. Hender remarked proudly, when the Senator tried to praise it as much as it deserved, and finally gave a cheerful laugh, such as he had not laughed for many a day.
“Why, it seems like drinking the month of October,” he told her; and at this the hostess reached over, protesting that the striped mug was too narrow to hold what it ought, and filled it up again.
“Oh, Joe Laneway, to think that I see you at last, after all these years!” she said. “How rich I shall feel with this evening to live over! I’ve always wanted to see somebody that I’d read about, and now I’ve got that to remember; but I’ve always known I should see you again, and I believe ‘t was the Lord’s will.”
Early the next morning they said good-by. The early breakfast had to be hurried, and Marilla was to drive Mr. Laneway to the station, three miles away. It was Saturday morning, and she was free from school.
Mr. Laneway strolled down the lane before breakfast was ready, and came back with a little bunch of pink anemones in his hand. Marilla thought that he meant to give them to her, but he laid them beside her grandmother’s plate. “You mustn’t put those in your desk,” he said with a smile, and Abby Hender blushed like a girl.
“I’ve got those others now, dried and put away somewhere in one of my books,” she said quietly, and Marilla wondered what they meant.
The two old friends shook hands warmly at parting. “I wish you could have stayed another day, so I could have had the minister come and see you,” urged Mrs. Hender regretfully.