continued, taking off his coat and beginning to unpack his sack--a
common "gunny bag"--used for potatoes. "We're independent
ourselves, ain't we, Slinn?"

His good spirits, which had been at first labored and affected, had
become natural. Slinn, looking at his brightened eye and fresher
color, could not help thinking he was more like his own real self
at this moment than in his counting-house and offices--with all his
simplicity as a capitalist. A less abstracted and more observant
critic than Slinn would have seen in this patient aptitude for real
work, and the recognition of the force of petty detail, the
dominance of the old market-gardener in his former humble, as well
as his later more ambitious, successes.

"Heaven keep us from being dependent upon our children!" said
Slinn, darkly.

"Let the young ones alone to-night; we can get along without them,
as they can without us," said Mulrady, with a slight twinge as he
thought of his reflections on the hillside. "But look here,
there's some champagne and them sweet cordials that women like;
there's jellies and such like stuff, about as good as they make
'em, I reckon; and preserves, and tongues, and spiced beef--take
your pick! Stop, let's spread them out." He dragged the table to
the middle of the floor, and piled the provisions upon it. They
certainly were not deficient in quality or quantity. "Now, Slinn,
wade in."

"I don't feel hungry," said the invalid, who had lapsed again into
a chair before the fire.