"There's Benedict's little boy! I feel 'im fur hours arter I've had 'im in my arms, jest because he's alive an' little.

An' I don't know--I--I vow, I guess I better go away.

Can you git the clo'es made in two days, so I can take 'em home with me?
Can't ye put 'em out round?
I'll pay ye, ye know." Miss Butterworth thought she could, and on that promise Jim remained in Sevenoaks.
How he got out of the house he did not remember, but he went away very much exalted.

What he did during those two days it did not matter to him, so long as he could walk over to Miss Butterworth's each night, and watch her light from his cover in the trees.
Before the tailoress closed her eyes in sleep that night her brisk and ready shears had cut the cloth for the two suits at a venture, and in the morning the work was parceled among her benevolent friends, as a work of charity whose objects were not to be mentioned.
When Jim called for the clothes, they were done, and there was no money to be paid for the labor.

The statement of the fact embarrassed Jim more than anything that had occurred in his interviews with the tailoress.
"I sh'll pay ye some time, even if so be that nothin' happens," said he; "an' if so be that somethin' does happen, it'll be squar' any way.