"
Christie could not help smiling at the story, but she liked it, and
sincerely wished she could imitate the hero of it in his piety, not
his powder. She was about to say so when the sound of approaching
steps announced the advent of her host. She had been rather
impressed with the "smartness" of Lisha by his wife's praises, but
when a small, sallow, sickly looking man came in she changed her
mind; for not even an immensely stiff collar, nor a pair of boots
that seemed composed entirely of what the boys call "creak leather,"
could inspire her with confidence.
Without a particle of expression in his yellow face, Mr. Wilkins
nodded to the stranger over the picket fence of his collar, lighted
his pipe, and clumped away to enjoy his afternoon promenade without
compromising himself by a single word.
His wife looked after him with an admiring gaze as she said:
"Them boots is as good as an advertisement, for he made every stitch
on 'em himself;" then she added, laughing like a girl: "It's
redick'lus my bein' so proud of Lisha, but ef a woman ain't a right
to think wal of her own husband, I should like to know who has!"
Christie was afraid that Mrs. Wilkins had seen her disappointment in
her face, and tried, with wifely zeal, to defend her lord from even
a disparaging thought.
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