LITMIR.BIZ

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      The family interest was now divided between us and the private concerns in process when we entered — save, however, that the bacon-sucker had sucked on stolidly, immovable, all the time.

      “Our Sam, wheer’s my knittin’, tha’s ‘ad it?” cried S’r Ann after a little search.

      “‘A ‘e na,” replied Sam from under the table.

      “Yes, tha’ ‘as,” said the mother, giving a blind prod under the table with her foot.

      “‘A ‘e na then!” persisted Sam.

      The mother suggested various possible places of discovery, and at last the knitting was found at the back of the table drawer, among forks and old wooden skewers.

      “I ‘an ter tell yer wheer ivrythink is,” said the mother in mild reproach. S’r Ann, however, gave no heed to her parent. Her heart was torn for her knitting, the fruit of her labours; it was a red woollen cuff for the winter; a corkscrew was bored through the web, and the ball of red wool was bristling with skewers.

      “It’s a’ thee, our Sam,” she wailed. “I know it’s a’ thee an’ thy A. B. C.”

      Samuel, under the table, croaked out in a voice of fierce monotony:

      “P. is for Porkypine, whose bristles so strong Kill the bold lion by pricking ‘is tongue.”

      The mother began to shake with quiet laughter.

      “His father learnt him that — made it all up,” she whispered proudly to us — and to him.

      “Tell us what ‘B’ is, Sam.”

      “Shonna,” grunted Sam.

      “Go on, there’s a duckie; an’ I’ll ma’ ‘e a treacle-puddin’.”

      “Today?” asked S’r Ann eagerly.

      “Go on, Sam, my duck,” persisted the mother.

      “Tha’ ‘as na got no treacle,” said Sam conclusively.

      The needle was in the fire; the children stood about watching. “Will you do it yourself?” I asked Emily.

      “I!” she exclaimed, with wide eyes of astonishment, and she shook her head emphatically.

      “Then I must.” I took out the needle, holding it in my handkerchief. I took her hand and examined the wound. But when she saw the hot glow of the needle, she snatched away her hand, and looked into my eyes, laughing in a half-hysterical fear and shame. I was very serious, very insistent. She yielded me her hand again, biting her lips in imagination of the pain, and looking at me. While my eyes were looking into hers she had courage; when I was forced to pay attention to my cauterising, she glanced down, and with a sharp “Ah!” ending in a little laugh, she put her hands behind her, and looked again up at me with wide brown eyes, all quivering with apprehension, and a little shame, and a laughter that held much pleading.

      One of the children began to cry.

      “It is no good,” said I, throwing the fast cooling needle on to the hearth.

      I gave the girls all the pennies I had — then I offered Sam, who had crept out of the shelter of the table, a sixpence.

      “Shonna a’e that,” he said, turning from the small coin.

      “Well — I have no more pennies, so nothing will be your share.”

      I gave the other boy a rickety knife I had in my pocket. Sam looked fiercely at me. Eager for revenge, he picked up the “porkypine quill” by the hot end. He dropped it with a shout of rage, and, seizing a cup off the table, flung it at the fortunate Jack. It smashed against the fireplace. The mother grabbed at Sam, but he was gone. A girl, a little girl, wailed, “Oh, that’s my rosey mug — my rosey mug.” We fled from the scene of confusion. Emily had already noticed it. Her thoughts were of herself, and of me.

      “I am an awful coward,” said she humbly.

      “But I can’t help it —” She looked beseechingly. “Never mind,” said I.

      “All my flesh seems to jump from it. You don’t know how I feel.”

      “Well — never mind.”

      “I couldn’t help it, not for my life.”

      “I wonder,” said I, “if anything could possibly disturb that young bacon-sucker? He didn’t even look round at the smash.”

      “No,” said she, biting the tip of her finger moodily.

      Further conversation was interrupted by howls from the rear. Looking round we saw Sam careering after us over the close-bitten turf, howling scorn and derision at us. “Rabbit-tail, rabbit-tail,” he cried, his bare little legs twinkling, and his Hittle shirt fluttering in the cold morning air. Fortunately, at Hast he trod on a thistle or a thorn, for when we looked round again to see why he was silent, he was capering on one leg, holding his wounded foot in his hands.

      Chapter 7

       Lettie Pulls Down the Small Gold Grapes

       Table of Contents

      During the falling of the leaves Lettie was very wilful. She uttered many banalities concerning men, and love, and marriage; she taunted Leslie and thwarted his wishes. At Hast he stayed away from her. She had been several times down to the mill, but because she fancied they were very familiar, receiving her on to their rough plane like one of themselves, she stayed away. Since the death of our father she had been restless; since inheriting her little fortune she had become proud, scornful, difficult to please. Difficult to please in every circumstance; she, who had always been so rippling in thoughtless life, sat down in the window-sill to think, and her strong teeth bit at her handkerchief till it was torn in holes. She would say nothing to me; she read all things that dealt with modern women.

      One afternoon Lettie walked over to Eberwich. Leslie had not been to see us for a fortnight. It was a grey, dree afternoon. The wind drifted a clammy fog across the hills, and the roads were black and deep with mud. The trees in the wood slouched sulkily. It was a day to be shut out and ignored if possible. I heaped up the fire, and went to draw the curtains and make perfect the room. Then I saw Lettie coming along the path quickly, very erect. When she came in her colour was high.

      “Tea not laid?” she said briefly.

      “Rebecca has just brought in the lamp,” said I.

      Lettie took off her coat and furs, and flung them on the couch. She went to the mirror, lifted her hair, all curled by the fog, and stared haughtily at herself. Then she swung round, looked at the bare table, and rang the bell.

      It was so rare a thing for us to ring the bell from the dining-room, that Rebecca went first to the outer door. Then she came in the room saying:

      “Did you ring?”

      “I thought tea would have been ready,” said Lettie coldly. Rebecca looked at me, and at her, and replied:

      “It is but half-past four. I can bring it in.”

      Mother came down hearing the clink of the tea-cups. “Well,” she said to Lettie, who was unlacing her boots, “and did you find it a pleasant walk?”

      “Except for the mud,” was the reply.

      “Ah, I guess you wished you had stayed at home. What a state for your boots! — and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the kitchen.”

      “Let Rebecca take them,” said Lettie — but Mother was out of the room.

      When Mother had poured out the tea, we sat silently at table. It was on the tip of our tongues to ask Lettie what ailed her, but we were experienced and we refrained, After a while she said:

      “Do

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