Then he looked at his uncle with an air of superior wisdom. "_Now_
she'll cry," he said.
"I shouldn't wonder if she did," agreed the captain, nodding.
* * * * *
CHAPTER IX
Lanse stood in the kitchen door, lunch-pail in hand. It lacked ten
minutes of seven of a June morning; therefore he wore his working
clothes. He glanced down at them now with an expression of extreme
distaste, then from Celia to Charlotte, both of whom wore fresh print
dresses covered with the trim pinafore aprons which were Celia's pride.
"When this siege is over," he remarked, "maybe I won't appreciate the
privilege of wearing clean linen from morning till night every day in
the week."
"Poor old Lanse!" said Celia, with compassion. "That's been the part
that has tried your soul, hasn't it! You haven't minded the work, but
the dirt----"
"I hope I'm not a Nancy, either," Lanse went on. "I'm sure I don't feel
that my wonderful dignity is compromised by my occupation. Better men
than I soil their hands to more purpose every day, but--well, I must be
off.
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