They sat down in two old
straight-backed kitchen chairs. They still held each other by the
hand, and looked in each other's face. The plain old room was aglow
with heat and cheerfulness; the tea-kettle was singing; a drowsy cat
sat on the wood-box with her paws tucked in; and the house dog came
forward in a friendly way, wagging his tail, and laid his head on
their clasped hands.
"And to think I haven't seen you since your folks moved out West, the
next spring after you were thirteen in the winter," said the good
woman. "But I s'pose there ain't been anybody that has followed your
career closer than I have, accordin' to their opportunities. You've
done a great work for your country, Joe. I'm proud of you clean
through. Sometimes folks has said, 'There, there, Mis' Hender, what be
you goin' to say now?' but I've always told 'em to wait. I knew you
saw your reasons. You was always an honest boy." The tears started and
shone in her kind eyes. Her face showed that she had waged a bitter
war with poverty and sorrow, but the look of affection that it wore,
and the warm touch of her hard hand, misshapen and worn with toil,
touched her old friend in his inmost heart, and for a minute neither
could speak.
"They do say that women folks have got no natural head for politics,
but I always could seem to sense what was goin' on in Washington, if
there was any sense to it," said grandmother Hender at last.
"Nobody could puzzle you at school, I remember," answered Mr.
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