"Oh, her mother'd be very careful. For if you go to fairyland, you'll have to stay seven years."
"I shouldn't like that," subjoined Dilly. "But I would like the red shoes. And if I could find some four-leaf clovers——"
"You can't in winter."
"Well—next summer."
"Maybe grandad can find you some red leather, and lame Pete can make them."
"But I rather have the fairy shoemaker, with his 'tip tap, rip rap';" laughing.
"Don't minch about him. Here's a nice chunk of cake."
Dilly had cake enough to spoil a modern child's digestion. But no one understood hygiene in those days, and kept well.
There were no schools for little girls to go to. But a queer old fellow, who lived by himself, taught the boys, and tried to thrash some knowledge in their brains. It was considered the best method.
Dilly's mother taught her to read English, and great-grandfather inducted her into French. Gran'mere talked French to the old man. Every morning she brushed his hair and tied it in a queue with a black ribbon. He wore a ruffled shirt front, and lace ruffles at his wrist; knee breeches, silk stockings, and low shoes with great buckles.