"But, ecod!" he broke out, violently rubbing his nose, until I was
fairly concerned for it, so red did it turn, "that was a wonderful good
idea about the flour!"
My mother looked at him sharply; then her eyes twinkled, and she hid a
smile behind her hand.
"_'Twould_ be a good thing t' have it grow," the old man continued.
"'Twould be far better than--than--well, now--makin' it the way they
does. Ecod!" he concluded, letting his glance fall in bewilderment on
the ground, "I wonders how they _does_ make flour. I wonders ... wonders
... where they gets the stuff an'--an'--how they makes it!"
He went off, wondering still; and my mother and I went slowly home, and
sat in the broad window of our house, which overlooked the harbour and
fronted the flaring western sky; and then first she told me of the kind
green world beyond.