What on
earth put it in your head? Work like that is only for horny
hands."
"Your hands ain't horny, Cousin Godfrey. They may be a little
harder than mine--they wouldn't be much good if they weren't--but
they're no fitter by nature to clean stirrups. Is it for me to
sit with mine in my lap, and yours at this? I know better."
"Why shouldn't I clean my own harness, Letty, if I like?" said
Godfrey, who could not help feeling pleased as well as annoyed;
in this one moment Letty had come miles nearer him.
"Oh, surely! if you like, Cousin Godfrey," she answered; "but do
you like?"
"Better than to see you doing it."
"But not better than I like to do it; that I am sure of. It is
hands that write poetry that are not fit for work like this."
"How do you know I write poetry?" asked Godfrey, displeased, for
she touched here a sensitive spot.
"Oh, don't be angry with me!" she said, letting the stirrup fall
on the floor, and clasping her great wash-leather gloves
together; "I couldn't help seeing it was poetry, for it lay on
the table when I went to do your room."
"Do my room, Letty! Does my mother--?"
"She doesn't want to make a fine lady of me, and I shouldn't like
it if she did. I have no head, but I have pretty good hands. Of
course, Cousin Godfrey, I didn't read a word of the poetry. I
daredn't do that, however much I might have wished.
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