He had put it off from day to day, though he was not sorry now to give some slight hint of his fears.
"Old! he's no older nor me," said Mrs.Nixey.

"A pretty thing it'ud be if folks gave up at sixty or so.

There's another ten years' work in you," she wrote on the slate.
"Ten years' work." How earnestly he wished it was true! He might still earn a little fortune for Phebe; for he was known all through the county, and beyond, and could get a good price for his carving.

He stretched out his hand and took down his unfinished work, looking longingly at it.
Phebe's fingers were moving fast, so fast that he could not follow them.
Of late he had been unable to seize the meaning of those swift, glancing finger-tips.

He had reached the stage of a man who can no longer catch the lower tones of a familiar voice, and has to guess at the words thus spoken.