"I will not sell her." His voice was low and fierce, and all the more so because he knew that was just what he would do, and his heart was sick with the pain of the thought.
"I say," said Yankee, suddenly, "cudn't bunk me in your loft, cud you! Can't stand the town.

Too close." The confining limitations of the Twentieth, that metropolitan center of some dozen buildings, including the sawmill and blacksmith shop, were too trying for Yankee's nervous system.
"Yes, indeed," said Ranald, heartily.

"We will be very glad to have you, and it will be the very best thing for father." "S'pose old Fox cud nibble round the brule," continued Yankee, nodding his head toward his sorrel horse.

"Don't think I will do much drivin' machine business.

Rather slow." Yankee spent the summer months selling sewing-machines and new patent churns.
"There's plenty of pasture," said Ranald, "and Fox will soon make friends with Lisette.