Bess was studying the fly-leaf. Yes, there it was, “John Travis.”
“I wisht it wasn’t John,” said Bess, a little disappointed. “He ought to have a fine, grand name, he’s so splendid. Rich people have nice ways, that poor people can’t seem to get.”
“No, they can’t get ’em, they can’t,” Dil repeated, with a despairing sense of the gulf between. She had never thought much about rich people before.
“You’d better hide the book, an’ the money, ’fore Owny comes in,” said Bess fearfully. “I don’t even dast to look at the pictures. But we’ll have it a good many days when mammy’s out, an’ I must learn to read the hard words. O Dil! if I had two good legs, I would jump for joy.”
Dil wanted to sit down and cry from some unknown excess of feeling—she never had time to cry from pure joy. But she heeded Bess’s admonition, and hid their precious gifts. Then she stirred the fire and put on the potatoes. It was beginning to rain, and the boys came in noisily. The babies went home, and they had supper.
It was quite late when Mrs. Quinn returned home, and she threw a bundle on the lounge. The boys being in, and Bess out of the way, she had nothing to scold about. She had had her day’s work praised, and a good supper in the bargain. Then cook had given her a “drap of the craythur” to keep out the cold. And she could have two days’ work every week “stiddy,” so she resolved to throw over some poorer customer.
But when Mrs. Murphy came down with a few potatoes in her hand that she had borrowed, and full of her wonderful news, Dil’s heart sank within her like lead.
“An’ what do ye think?” the visitor began incautiously. “Poor old Mrs. Bolan is half wild with all the singin’ an’ the beautiful prisint he gev her.”
“What prisint?” asked Mrs. Quinn peremptorily.
“Why, it was a five-dollar bill. I thought first she’d faint clear away wid joy.”