“My sweet sister,” said Elsie, rapturously kissing the pale face as she drew Margaret down into a rocking-chair, “you will kill yourself with trying to be the world’s keeper.”
“It is only a little thing, Elsie; the cup of cold water and no more.”
CHAPTER VII.
It was June before the little Frenchwoman would hear to Margaret’s making any effort to dispose of her produce in her own way. Regularly every morning Lizzette boarded the four-o’clock train for the city with her boxes of produce, which she pushed to the train in the hand-cart and wheeled from the train to her stall in the market. Until now the amount yielded by Margaret’s garden had been small in bulk, but so well had it thrived under Lizzette’s management and the comparatively good season, that the more bulky vegetables, such as spinach, peas, beans, etc., were coming on, and Lizzette found the yield of the two gardens more than she could well manage in her small way. Margaret, appalled somewhat, for all her courage, at having to face the multitude in a stall at the market, was for disposing of her produce to the commission merchants on South M—— Street.
“Non,” said Lizzette emphatically. “Zere ees no money in zat. You make consignment and more likely zan not get back ze whole stuff wilted and good for nosing. I tried zat to my sorrow. In ze stall you sell all at some price. You no carry home ze stuff again.”
“I know,” said Margaret doubtfully, “but truly I dread my ignorance and the contact with things wholly unfamiliar.”
“Ah, ze little brown Frenchwoman haf no such fear, and she forget ze girlhood so long temps! Zare ees Gilbert—ees he not old enough? I take him under my wing, and he sall learn ze tricks of trade. N’est-ce pas?”
“I will go with you to-morrow,” said Margaret, “for I must conquer my dread. Perhaps some time Gilbert shall take my place.”
Nothing in the line of work had ever seemed so distasteful to Margaret as wheeling the little hand-cart through the streets of the city, and taking her place within the stall next to Lizzette’s. It was early when they reached the market, and the buyers were not out in full force; nevertheless Margaret fancied she saw in every eye that lingered on her an impertinent curiosity. Self-consciousness was the least of her failings; but there was an almost unacknowledged protest at being compelled to stand up before the gaze of hundreds and volubly offer her small wares for sale. Duty certainly wore her most uninviting aspect that morning, and came nearer finding Margaret a coward than ever before. She had never as yet shrunk from any work, however menial; but there was a vast difference between performing that work within the seclusion of home, cheered and upheld by an atmosphere of love and appreciation that made “the dignity of labor” something more than the radiant utterance of some visionary pedant, and standing in the full gaze of the public, subjected to the whims, avarice, snobbishness, and impertinence of the pushing, merciless multitude. Oh, how she shrank from it all! How had she ever thought it possible to have strength for such work? Lizzette’s quick eyes noticed the constraint of Margaret’s manner, and she undertook, by a display of more than ordinary volubility and gayety, to dispel the gloom that wrapped her. She bustled about, changing the position of that bunch of onions or radishes, this head of lettuce, or endeavoring to display more temptingly the measures of spinach, peas, beans, etc. More than one would-be buyer halted, gazed at the silent figure and white face, and passed on.
“Zis will nevair do,” interposed Lizzette in a whisper. “You look truly seek; sit down here behind ze cart, and I sell for bof of us. Vous avez ze paleness I no like to see. Ze work ees too hard.”