“You’ve hardly earned ’em yet as wages, I take it.” The shrewd, sharp, questioning look of the woman put the young girl on her guard.
“How did you manage to get them, eh?” pursued Mrs. Green, peering into the face of Lottie with an expression of suspicion which covered that face in a moment with a scarlet flush of indignation.
“I can’t tell you—what is it to you?—I got them honestly, you may be sure of that,” stammered forth Lottie, as she pushed back the black hair from her heated cheeks.
“Did your master give ’em to you? he’s not the kind of man for that sort of thing, or the world does him injustice.”
“Mrs. Green, would you be so kind as to leave us for a little,” said Lottie desperately; “I am very, very, very tired, and—;” she knew not how to finish her sentence.
The cobbler’s wife did not seem in the least inclined to go. She shook her head gravely, looked hard at the girl, and then shook her head again. “Better be open at once, Lottie Stone, you know I’m your friend; I know all about your father, poor man! If you’ve been a bit tempted, and—”
LOTTIE AND MRS. GREEN.
“The money is honestly mine—every penny of it—how dare you say such things?” exclaimed the indignant girl.
“Well, then, you’ve only to tell the simple truth how you came by it; there’s nothing to flare up about,” said Mrs. Green, putting her stout arms akimbo.