“Won’t you come in, Mr. Blount?” Callie said. “We have fresh bread and tea or cider if you prefer.” “No, thank you, Missus,” he said. “I’d rather just get to work. And call me Finn, if you please, everyone does.” “Only if you will call me Callie.” He shook his head and a lock of his brown hair fell down over his forehead. “That wouldn’t be fittin’, Missus,” he told her. “Please, all my friends call me Callie; and I hope we’ll come to be friends.” He paused in his examination of the broken hinge and looked at her curiously. “I don’t think Sir Thomas’d approve.” “Does it matter if he approves or not?” “Not to me,” he insisted, bending once more to his labors. “Nor to me.” He said no more but a tiny smile curved his full lips. “All right, then, as you will, Callie.” “Thank you, Finn.” Cyrus barked and Callie looked over to see Jem trying to wrestle a piece of driftwood out of the dog’s powerful jaws.
