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'Well； mother；' he answered。
'Was you fool enough t' go'n buy this stuff fer me？'
'No； mother … it come from New York City；' he said。
'From New York City？' was the exclamation of all。
Elizabeth Brower looked thoughtfullyy at her husband。
'Clear from New York City？' she repeated。
'From New York City；' said he。
'Wall； of all things！' said Uncle Eb； looking over his spectacles from one to another。
'It's from the Livingstone boy；' said Mrs Brower。 'I've heard he's the son of a rich man。'
''Fraid he took a great fancy t' Hope；' said David。
'Father；' said the girl； you've no right to say that。 I'm sure he never cared a straw for me。'
'I don't think we ought to keep it；' said Mrs Brower； looking up thoughtfullyy。
'Shucks and shavin's！' said Uncle Eb。 'Ye don't know but what I had it sent myself。'
Hope went over and put her arms around his neck。
'Did you； Uncle Eb？' she asked。 'Now you tell me the truth； Unde Eb。'
'Wouldn't say 't I did；' he answered； 'but I don' want 'a see ye go sendin' uv it back。 Ye dunno who sent it。'
'What'll I do with it？' Mrs Brower asked； laughing in a way that showed a sense of absurdity。 'I'd a been tickled with it thirty years ago； but now…folks 'ud think I was crazy。'
'Never heard such fol de rol；' said Uncle Eb。 'If ye move t' the village it'll come handy t' go t' meetin'in。'
That seemed to be unanswerable and conclusive； at least for the time being； and the silk was laid away。 We sat talking until late bedtime； Hope and I； telling of our studies and of the many people we had met in HilIsborough。
We hung up our stockings just as we had always done Christmas Eve； and were up betimes in the morning to find them filled with many simple but delightful things； and one which I treasure to this day … the locket and its picrure of which I had been surreptitiously informed。
At two o'clock we had a fine dinner of roast turkey and chicken pie； with plenty of good cider； and the mince pie； of blessed memory； such as only a daughter of New England may dare try to make。
Uncle Eb went upstairs after dinner and presently we heard him descending with a slow and heavy foot I opened the stair door and there he stood with the old bass viol that had long lain neglected in a dusty corner of the attic。 Many a night I had heard it groan as the strings loosened； in the years it had lain on its hack； helpless and forgotten。 It was like a dreamer； snoring in his sleep； and murmuring of that he saw in his dreams。 Uncle Eb had dusted and strung it and glued its weaker joints。 He sat down with it' the severe look of old upon his face； and set the strings roaring as he tuned them。 Then he brought the sacred treasure to me and leaned it against my shoulder。
'There that's a Crissmus present fer ye； Willie；' said he。 'It may help ye t' pass away the time once in a while。'
I thanked him warmly。
''S a reel firs'…class instrument；' he said。 'Been a rip snorter 'n its day。' He took from his bosom then the old heart pin of silver that he had always worn of a Sunday。
'Goin' t' give ye thet； too；' he said。 'Dunno's ye'll ever care to wear it； but I want ye should hev sumthin' ye can carry'n yer pocket t' remember me by。'
I did not dare trust myself to speak； and I sat helplessly turning that relic of a better day in my fingers。
'It's genuwine silver；' said he proudly。
I took his old hand in mine and raised it reverently to my lips。
'Hear'n 'em tell 'bout goin' t' the village； an' I says t' myself； 〃Uncle Eb；〃 says I； 〃we'll hev t' be goin'。 'Tain' no place fer you in the village。〃'
'Holden；' said David Brower； 'don't ye never talk like that ag'in。 Yer just the same as married t' this family； an' ye can't ever git away from us。'
And he never did until his help was needed in other and fairer fields； I am sure； than those of Faraway … God knows where。
Chapter 19
Tip Taylor was； in the main； a serious…minded man。 A cross eye enhanced the natural solemnity of his countenance。 He was little given to talk or laughter unless he were on a hunt； and then he only whispered his joy。 He had seen a good bit of the world through the peek sight of his rifle； and there was something always in the feel of a gun that lifted him to higher moods。 And yet one could reach a tender spot in him without the aid of a gun。 That winter vacation I set myself to study things for declamation … specimens of the eloquence of Daniel Webster and Henry Clay and James Otis and Patrick Henry。 I practiced them in the barn； often； in sight and hearing of the assembled herd and some of those fiery passages were rather too loud and threatening for the peace and comfort of my audience。 The oxen seemed always to be expecting the sting of the bull whip； they stared at me timidly； tilting their ears every moment； as if to empty them of a heavy load； while the horses snorted with apprehension。 This haranguing of the herd had been going on a week or more when Uncle Eb and I； returning from a distant part of the farm； heard a great uproar m the stable。 Looking in at a window we saw Tip Taylor； his back toward us； extemporising a speech。 He was pressing his argument with gestures and the tone of thunder。 We listened a moment； while a worried look came over the face of Uncle Eb。 Tip's words were meaningless save for the secret aspiration they served to advertise。 My old companion thought Tip had gone crary； and immediately swung the door and stepped in。 The orator fell suddenly from his lofry altitude and became a very sober looking hired man。
'What's the matter？' Uncle Eb enquired。
'Practicin'；' said Tip soberly； as he turned slowly； his face damp and red with exertion。
'Fer what？' Uncle Eb enquired。
'Fer the 'sylum； I guess；' he answered； with a faint smile。
'Ye don' need no more practice；' Uncle Eb answered。 'Looks t' me as though ye was purty well prepared。'
To me there was a touch of pathos in this show of the deeper things m Tip's nature that had been kindled to eruption by my spouting。 He would not come in to dinner that day； probably from an unfounded fear that we would make fun of his flight … a thing we should have been far from doing once we understood him。
It was a bitter day of one of the coldest winters we had ever known。 A shrieking wind came over the hills； driving a scud of snow before it The stock in the stables； we all came in； soon after dinner； and sat comfortably by the fire with cider； checkers and old sledge。 The dismal roar of the trees and the wind…wail in the chinney served only to increase our pleasure。 It was growing dusk when mother； peering through the sheath of frost on a window pane； uttered an exclamation of surprise。
'Why！ who is this at the door？' said she。 'Why！ It's a man in a cutter。' Father was near the door and he swung it open quickly。 There stood a horse and cutter； a man sitting in it； heavily muffled。 The horse was shivering and the man sat motionless。
'Hello！' said David Brower in a loud voice。
He got no answer and ran bareheaded to the sleigh。
'Come； quick； Holden；' he called； 'it's Doctor Bigsby。'
We all ran out then； while David lifted the still figure in his arms。
'In here； quick！' said Elizabeth； opening the door to the parlour。 'Musn't take 'im near the stove。'
We carried him into the cold room and laid him down； and David and I tore his wraps open while the others ran quickly after snow。
I rubbed it vigorously upon his iace and ears； the others meantime applying it to his feet and arms； that had been quickly stripped。 The doctor stared at us curiously and tried to speak。
'Get ap； Dobbin！' he called presently； and ducked as if urging his horse。 'Get ap； Dobbin！ Man'll die 'fore ever we git there。'
We all worked upon him with might and main。 The white went slowly out of his face。 We lifted him to a sitting posture。 Mother and Hope and Uncle Eb were rubbing his hands and feet。
'Where am I？' he enquired； his face now badly swollen。
'At David Brower's；' said I。
'Huh？' he asked； with that kindiy and familiar grunt of interrogation。
'At David Brower's；' I repeated。
'Well； I'll have t' hurry；' said he； trying feebly to rise。 'Man's dyin' over … ' he hesitated thoughtfully； 'on the Plains；' he added； looking around at us。
Grandma Bisnette brought a lamp and held itso the light frll on his face。 He looked from one to another。 He drew one of his hands away and stared at it。
'Somebody froze？' he asked。
'Yes；' said I。
'Hm！ Too bad。 How'd it happen？' he asked。 'I don't know。'
'How's the pulse？' he enquired； feeling for my。wrist。
I let him hold it in his hand。
'Will you bring me some water in a glass？' he enquired； turning to Mrs Brower； just as I had seen him do many a time in Gerald's illness。 Before she came with the water his head fell forward upon his breast； while he muttered feebly。 I thought then he was dead； but presently he roused himself with a mighty effort。
'David Brower！' he called loudly； and trying hard to rise； 'bring the horse！ bring the horse！ Mus' be goin'； I tell ye。 Man's dyin' over … on the Plains。'
He went limp as a rag then。 I could feel his heart leap and struggle feebly。
'There's a man dyin' here；' said David Brower； in a low tone。 'Ye needn't rub no