Part 19 (1/2)

”Oh! but mother makes them each keep a s.h.i.+lling out of it for themselves,” said Bessy, in a complaining tone, for she wanted money, and was inclined to envy any one who possessed it.

”That's right enough,” said Mrs. Foster. ”They that earn it should have some of the power over it.”

”But about this wool; this eighteenpence! I wish I was a boy and could earn money. I wish mother would have let me go to work in the factory.”

”Come now, Bessy, I can have none of that nonsense. Thy mother knows what's best for thee; and I'm not going to hear thee complain of what she has thought right. But may be, I can help you to a way of gaining eighteenpence. Mrs. Scott at the worsted shop told me that she should want some one to clean on Sat.u.r.day; now you're a good strong girl, and can do a woman's work if you've a mind. Shall I say you will go? and then I don't mind if I lend you my eighteenpence. You'll pay me before I want my rent on Monday.”

”Oh! thank you, dear Mrs. Foster,” said Bessy. ”I can scour as well as any woman, mother often says so; and I'll do my best on Sat.u.r.day; they shan't blame you for having spoken up for me.”

”No, Bessy, they won't, I'm sure, if you do your best. You're a good sharp girl for your years.”

Bessy lingered for some time, hoping that Mrs. Foster would remember her offer of lending her the money; but finding that she had quite forgotten it, she ventured to remind the kind old woman. That it was nothing but forgetfulness, was evident from the haste with which Mrs. Foster bustled up to her tea-pot and took from it the money required.

”You're as welcome to it as can be, Bessy, as long as I'm sure of its being repaid by Monday. But you're in a mighty hurry about this coverlet,”

continued she, as she saw Bessy put on her bonnet and prepare to go out.

”Stay, you must take patterns, and go to the right shop in St. Mary's Gate. Why, your mother won't be back this three weeks, child.”

”No. But I can't abide waiting, and I want to set to it before it is dark; and you'll teach me the st.i.tch, won't you, when I come back with the wools? I won't be half an hour away.”

But Mary and Bill had to ”abide waiting” that afternoon; for though the neighbour at whose house the key was left could let them into the house, there was no supper ready for them on their return from school; even Jenny was away spending the afternoon with a playfellow; the fire was nearly out, the milk had been left at a neighbour's; altogether home was very comfortless to the poor tired children, and Bill grumbled terribly; Mary's head ached, and the very tones of her brother's voice, as he complained, gave her pain; and for a minute she felt inclined to sit down and cry. But then she thought of many little sayings which she had heard from her teacher--such as ”Never complain of what you can cure,”

”Bear and forbear,” and several other short sentences of a similar description. So she began to make up the fire, and asked Bill to fetch some chips; and when he gave her the gruff answer, that he did not see any use in making a fire when there was nothing to cook by it, she went herself and brought the wood without a word of complaint.

Presently Bill said, ”Here! you lend me those bellows; you're not blowing it in the right way; girls never do!” He found out that Mary was wise in making a bright fire ready; for before the blowing was ended, the neighbour with whom the milk had been left brought it in, and little handy Mary prepared the porridge as well as the mother herself could have done. They had just ended when Bessy came in almost breathless; for she had suddenly remembered, in the middle of her knitting-lesson, that Bill and Mary must be at home from school.

”Oh!” she said, ”that's right. I have so hurried myself! I was afraid the fire would be out. Where's Jenny? You were to have called for her, you know, as you came from school. Dear! how stupid you are, Mary. I am sure I told you over and over again. Now don't cry, silly child. The best thing you can do is to run off back again for her.”

”But my lessons, Bessy. They are so bad to learn. It's tables day to-morrow,” pleaded Mary.

”Nonsense; tables are as easy as can be. I can say up to sixteen times sixteen in no time.”

”But you know, Bessy, I'm very stupid, and my head aches so to-night!”

”Well! the air will do it good. Really, Mary, I would go myself, only I'm so busy; and you know Bill is too careless, mother says, to fetch Jenny through the streets; and besides they would quarrel, and you can always manage Jenny.”

Mary sighed, and went away to bring her sister home. Bessy sat down to her knitting. Presently Bill came up to her with some question about his lesson. She told him the answer without looking at the book; it was all wrong, and made nonsense; but Bill did not care to understand what he learnt, and went on saying, ”Twelve inches make one s.h.i.+lling,” as contentedly as if it were right.

Mary brought Jenny home quite safely. Indeed, Mary always did succeed in everything, except learning her lessons well; and sometimes, if the teacher could have known how many tasks fell upon the willing, gentle girl at home, she would not have thought that poor Mary was slow or a dunce; and such thoughts would come into the teacher's mind sometimes, although she fully appreciated Mary's sweetness and humility of disposition.

To-night she tried hard at her tables, and all to no use. Her head ached so, she could not remember them, do what she would. She longed to go to her mother, whose cool hands around her forehead always seemed to do her so much good, and whose soft, loving words were such a help to her when she had to bear pain. She had arranged so many plans for to-night, and now all were deranged by Bessy's new fancy for knitting.

But Mary did not see this in the plain, clear light in which I have put it before you. She only was sorry that she could not make haste with her lessons, as she had promised Jenny, who was now upbraiding her with the non-fulfilment of her words. Jenny was still up when Tom and Jem came in. They spoke sharply to Bessy for not having their porridge ready; and while she was defending herself, Mary, even at the risk of imperfect lessons, began to prepare the supper for her brothers. She did it all so quietly, that, almost before they were aware, it was ready for them; and Bessy, suddenly ashamed of herself, and touched by Mary's quiet helpfulness, bent down and kissed her, as once more she settled to the never-ending difficulty of her lesson.

Mary threw her arms round Bessy's neck, and began to cry, for this little mark of affection went to her heart; she had been so longing for a word or a sign of love in her suffering.

”Come, Molly,” said Jem, ”don't cry like a baby;” but he spoke very kindly. ”What's the matter? the old headache come back? Never mind. Go to bed, and it will be better in the morning.”

”But I can't go to bed. I don't know my lesson!” Mary looked happier, though the tears were in her eyes.

”I know mine,” said Bill, triumphantly.

”Come here,” said Jem. ”There! I've time enough to whittle away at this before mother comes back. Now let's see this difficult lesson.”