"I am glad I went on," said Janet. "Now we'll pop Willie in, and baby will soon be off too. Dear me, I do think father will be pleased. He does like a bit of quiet."
Jem Humphrey presently reappeared, rather later than Janet had expected. She found time beforehand to put everything neatly away, and to spread the table for supper. There was only a half-loaf of stale bread, besides cheese. Not that they could not afford more; for Jem received good wages, and he seldom squandered money on himself: but Janet had not taken the trouble to prepare anything else. She had counted herself too busy, and had said that "things would do as they were." Now she was sorry that she had not managed better.
Jem looked moody and vexed still, and he sat down without a word. But as his eyes travelled round the kitchen, noting its unwonted order, marking the absence of noisy babies, and perceiving the clean cap on Janet's smooth hair—not often smooth, alas!—an expression of relief came over his face.
"Why, whatever in the world have you been after?" he asked. "I shouldn't know the place."
"Mrs. Simmons came in, and helped me to tidy up," said Janet.
"I wish she'd come every day," muttered Jem.
"She couldn't do that," said Janet. "But I do mean to try—really and truly, Jem. I don't mean to have things all of a mess, if I can help it. I know I've been wrong, and I'll try to make a difference from this very day."
Jem looked at Janet and said no more. He took a hunch of bread, and ate silently.
"I might have got you something warm. I wish I had," said Janet.
"Well, it's been cold comfort you've given me lately, there's no manner of doubt," said Jem. "I shouldn't have minded a hot potato or two,—and it wouldn't have been such a vast deal of trouble neither."