George Manly hastened home. His wife and his two little girls were sitting at work. They were thin and pale, really for want of food. The room looked very cheerless, and their fire was so small that its warmth was scarcely felt; yet the commonest observer must have been struck by the neatness and cleanliness of the apartment and every thing about it.
“This is indeed a treat, girls, to have dear father home so soon to-night,” said Susan Manly, looking up at her husband as he stood before the table, turning his eyes first upon one and then upon another of the little party; then throwing himself into a chair, and smiling, he said,
“Well, children, a’n’t you glad to see me? May not those busy little fingers stop a moment, just while you jump up and throw your arms about your father’s neck, and kiss him?”
“O yes, we have time for that,” said one of the girls, as they both sprang up to kiss their father.
“But we have no time to lose, dear father,” said Sally, pressing her cheek to his, and speaking in a kind of coaxing whisper close to his ear, “for these shirts are the last of the dozen we have been making for Mr. Farley, in the Corn-market.”
“And as no work can be done to-morrow,” added Betsy gravely, who stood with her little hand in her father’s, “we are all working as hard as we can; for mother has promised to take them home on Monday afternoon.”
“Either your eyes are very weak to-night, dear wife,” said George, “or you have been crying. I’m afraid you work too hard by candlelight.”
Susan smiled, and said, “Working does not hurt my eyes,” and as she spoke, she turned her head and beckoned with her finger to her little boy.
“Why, John, what’s this that I see?” said his father. “What, you in the corner! Come out, and tell me what you have been doing.”