heart that it wuz his good looks that wuz wanted to embellish the room,
and I kep on a wonderin' inside of myself what made Mr. Freeman so
oncommon good to us, till one day he told us sunthin' that made it
plainer to us, and Josiah Allen's pride had a fall (which, if his pride
hadn't been composed of materials more indestructible than iron or gutty
perchy, it would have been broke to pieces long before, so many times
and so fur had it fell).

But Mr. Freeman one day showed us a picture of his mother in a little
velvet case. And, sez he to me--

"You look like her; I saw it the first time I met you."

And I do declare the picture did look like me, only mebby--_mebby_ I
say, she wuzn't quite so good-lookin'.

Yes, I did look like his mother. And then I see the secret of his
interest in, and his kindness to me and mine.

And Mr. Freeman wuz raised up in my mind as many as 2 notches, and I
don't know but 3 or 4. To think that he loved his mother's memory so
well as to be so kind for her sake, for the sake of a fleetin' likeness,
to be so good to another female.

But Josiah Allen looked meachin'. I gin him a dretful meanin' look. I
didn't say nothin', only jest that look, but it spoke volumes and
volumes, and my pardner silently devoured the volumes, and, as I say,
looked meachin' for pretty near a quarter of a hour.

And that is a long time for a man to look smut, and conscience-struck.