“Oh, dear Tom,” said the little girl, laying her hand upon his arm.
“I’ll not stand this nonsense!” exclaimed the boy fiercely; and turning suddenly round, he flung the rest of the sugar into the dusty road. “There—that serves you right; that will teach you another time to mind your own business and leave me alone;” and noisily setting down the empty cup, the boy sauntered out of the cottage.
Something seemed to rise in Minnie’s throat; her heart was swelling, her cheek was flushed with mingled sorrow and indignation. Oh, how much patience and meekness we require to meet the daily little trials of life!
Minnie was roused by her mother’s feeble, fretful voice. “I wish that you and Tom had a little more feeling for me. You have awoke me with your noise.”
“I am sorry that you have been disturbed, dear mother; I’ll try and not let it happen again. Do you feel better now?”
“No one feels better for awaking with a start,” returned Mrs. Wingfield peevishly. “I should not have expected such thoughtlessness from you.”
Minnie’s eyes were so brimful of tears that she dared not shut them, lest the drops should run over on her cheek. She knew that her mother would not like to see her cry, so, turning quietly away, she went to the small fire to make a little tea for the invalid.
There was nothing that Mrs. Wingfield enjoyed like a cup of warm tea; and when Minnie brought one to the side of her bed, with a nice little piece of dry toast beside it, even the sick woman’s worn face looked almost cheerful. As soon, however, as she had tasted the tea, she set down the cup with a displeased air.
“You’ve forgotten the sugar, child.”
“Not forgotten, mother, but—but I have none.”