"Wa-al," he said, meditatively, "ye know thar aint no reason why it should, Louisianny, if ye'd like to hev it fixed up more or different. If ye'd like a new paper--say a floweryer one--or a new set of cheers an' things. Up to Lawyer Hoskin's I seen 'em with red seats to 'em, an' seemed like they did set things off sorter. If ye'd like to hev some, thar aint no reason why ye shouldn't. Things has gone purty well with me, an'--an' thar aint none left but you, honey. Lord!" he added, in a queer burst of tenderness. "Why shouldn't ye hev things if ye want 'em?" "I don't want them," she protested. "I want nothing but you." For a moment there was a dead silence. He kept his eyes fixed on the fire. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind. But at last he spoke: "Don't ye, Louisianny?" he said. "No," she answered. "Nothing." And she drew his hand under her cheek and kissed it. He took it very quietly. "Ye've got a kind heart, Louisianny," he said. "Young folks gin'rally has, I think. It's sorter nat'ral, but Lord! thar's other things besides us old folks, an' it's nat'ral as ye'd want 'em. Thar's things as kin be altered, an' thar's things as cayn't. Let's alter them as kin. If ye'd like a cupoly put on the house, or, say a coat of yaller-buff paint--Sawyer's new house is yaller buff, an' it's mighty showy; or a organ or a pianny, or more dressin', ye shall have 'em. Them's things as it aint too late to set right, an' ye shall hev 'em." But she only cried the more in a soft, hushed way. "Oh, don't be so good to me," she said. "Don't be so good and kind." He went on as quietly as before. "If--fur instants--it was me as was to be altered, Louisianny, I'm afeared--I'm afeared we couldn't do it. I'm afeared as I've been let run too long--jest to put it that way. We mought hev done it if we'd hev begun airlier--say forty or fifty year back--but I'm afeared we couldn't do it now. Not as I wouldn't be willin'--I wouldn't hev a thing agin it, an' I'd try my best--but it's late. Thar's whar it is. If it was me as hed to be altered--made more moderner, an' to know more, an' to hev more style--I'm afeared thar'd be a heap o' trouble. Style didn't never seem to come nat'ral to me, somehow. I'm one o' them things as cayn't be altered. Let's alter them as kin." "I don't want you altered," she protested. "Oh! why should I, when you are such a good father--such a dear father!" And there was a little silence again, and at the end of it he said, in a gentle, forbearing voice, just as he had said before: "Don't ye, Louisianny?" They sat silent again for some time afterward--indeed, but little more was said until they separated for the night. Then, when she kissed him and clung for a moment round his neck, he suddenly roused himself from his prolonged reverie. "Lord!" he said, quite cheerfully, "it caynt last long, at the longest, arter all--an' you're young yet, you're young."