If you knowed what I know, Miss Butterworth, I don't know but you'd do somethin' that you'd be ashamed of, an' I don't know but you'd do something that I sh'd be ashamed of.

Strange things has happened, an' if ye want to know what they be, you must make these clo'es." Jim had aimed straight at one of the most powerful motives in human nature, and the woman began to relent, and to talk more as if it were possible for her to undertake the job.
"It may be," said the tailoress, thinking, and scratching the top of her head with a hair-pin, "that I _can_ work it in; but I haven't the measure." "Well, now, let's see," said Jim, pondering.

"Whar is they about such a man?
Don't ye remember a man that used to be here by the name of--of--Benedict, wasn't it ?--a feller about up to my ear--only fleshier nor he was?
An' the little feller--well, he's bigger nor Benedict's boy--bigger, leastways, nor he was then." Miss Butterworth rose to her feet, went up to Jim, and looked him sharply in the eyes.
"Can you tell me anything about Benedict and his boy ?" "All that any feller knows I know," said Jim, "an' I've never telled nobody in Sevenoaks." "Jim Fenton, you needn't be afraid of me." "Oh, I ain't.

I like ye better nor any woman I seen." "But you needn't be afraid to tell me," said Miss Butterworth, blushing.
"An' will ye make the clo'es ?" "Yes, I'll make the clothes, if I make them for nothing, and sit up nights to do it." "Give us your hand," said Jim, and he had a woman's hand in his own almost before he knew it, and his face grew crimson to the roots of his bushy hair.
Miss Butterworth drew her chair up to his, and in a low tone he told her the whole long story as only he knew it, and only he could tell it.
"I think you are the noblest man I ever saw," said Miss Butterworth, trembling with excitement.
"Well, turn about's fa'r play, they say, an' I think you're the most genuine creetur' I ever seen," responded Jim.

"All we want up in the woods now is a woman, an' I'd sooner have ye thar nor any other." "Poh! what a spoon you are!" said Miss Butterworth, tossing her head.
"Then there's timber enough in me fur the puttiest kind of a buckle." "But you're a blockhead--a great, good blockhead.