"Arthur—Arthur! you had better be quiet, if you know when you're well off!" exclaimed the mother, with a slight motion of the hand, which had a great deal of significant meaning to the mischievous group.
"Oh, don't—please, don't!" exclaimed the spoiled urchin, clapping his hands to his ears and running off to a corner, where he stood laughing in his mother's face. "I say Sarah, was it sweet?"
"Arthur, don't let me speak to you again, I say," cried Mrs. Jones, making a step forward and doing her utmost to get up a frown, while her hand gave additional demonstration of its hostile intent.
"Well, then, make her tell me; you ought to cuff her ears for not answering a civil question—hadn't she, boys!"
There was something altogether too ludicrous in this impudent appeal, and in the look of demure mischief put on by the culprit. Mrs. Jones bit her lips and turned away, leaving the boy as usual, victor of the field. "He isn't worth minding, Sarah," she said, evidently ashamed of her want of resolution; "come into the 'out-room,' I've something to tell you."
When the mother and daughter were alone, Mrs. Jones sat down and drew the young girl into her lap.
"Well, Sarah," she said, smoothing down the rich hair that lay against her bosom, "Your father and I have been talking about you to-day. You are almost sixteen, and can spin your day's work with any girl in the settlement. Your father says that after you have learned to weave and make cheese, he will send you down to Manhattan to school."
"Oh, mother, did he say so? in real, real, earnest?" cried the delighted girl flinging her arms round her mother's neck and kissing her yet handsome mouth with joy at the information it had just conveyed. "When will you let me go? I can learn to weave and make cheese in a week."
"If you learn all that he thinks best for you to know in two years, it will be as much as we expect. Eighteen is quite young enough. If you are very smart at home, you shall go when you are eighteen."