She had been knitting woollen stockings ever since Mercy could remember.

She always kept several on hand in different stages of incompletion: some that she could knit on in the dark, without any counting of stitches; others that were in the process of heeling or toeing, and required the closest attention.

She had been setting a heel while Mercy was speaking, and did not reply for a moment.
Then, pushing the stitches all into a compact bunch in the middle of one needle, she let her work fall into her lap, and, rolling the disengaged knitting-needle back and forth on her knee to brighten it, looked at Mercy reflectively.
"Mercy," said she, "queer people allers do take to each other.

I don't believe he's a bit queerer 'n you are, child." And Mrs.Carr laughed a little laugh, half pride and half dissatisfaction.

"You're jest like your father: he'd make friends with a stranger, any day, on the street, in two jiffeys, if he took a likin' to him; and there might be neighbors a livin' right long 'side on us, for years an' years, thet he'd never any more 'n jest pass the time o' day with, 'n' he wa'n't a bit stuck up, either.