“We could help,” Benny replied.
“Not much, I’m afraid. A little boy ten years old and a little girl seven would scarcely be able to do much toward making a living.”
“But shouldn’t you like to live there?” persisted Benny.
“I should, indeed,” returned his mother, with a sigh. “I was brought up on a farm, you know, and so was your father.”
Benny had heard of that farm many, many times. He knew all about the spring and the orchard, the barn and the garden. “Grandfather sold it, didn’t he?” was his remark, made regretfully.
“Yes, long ago. Come, we must have some supper. You and sister can set the table.”
“What is there for supper?”
“Nothing but bread and molasses, I’m afraid.”
“I wish we could have some ice cream and strawberries.”
“Now you are making an extravagant wish. We can’t have that, but, perhaps, we might have some bread and milk. You can go and get a quart of milk and we’ll have a treat.”