“Five pounds—how can I send him five pounds—I’ve not five shillings in the world!” cried Deborah, glancing around her, as if to see whether any article in that scantily furnished room could, if sold or pawned, bring anything like such a sum, the fifth part of which she had never possessed at one time since her marriage.
“Five pounds!” repeated her son dreamily, as he slowly moved his fingers one after the other, apparently to aid his dull brain in making some mental calculation.
“We must send, oh! we must send the money!” cried Lottie, clasping her hands. “Dear Mr. Eardley might—”
“I couldn’t ask him for another penny,” exclaimed Deborah, “he has done so much already, and he has so many alooking to him; and then your father forbids me to tell him a word.”
“If only Mr. Arthur were in England,” sighed Lottie.
“You earns wages,” said her brother abruptly, as if he had suddenly lighted on some fountain of wealth.
“My quarter’s wages won’t be due till next June,” replied Lottie.
“Could your master do anything?” suggested Deborah; “it is said about here that he’s rich.”
Lottie shook her head with a very significant expression. “He may have plenty of money,” she said slowly, “but I’m sure he don’t like to part with it; there’s nothing to be got out of he.”
“Here’s the baker’s cart come for you, Lottie,” cried her brother, who had sauntered up to the window.