"Presently. I'd rather talk a little first. When I've grumbled a bit, I feel better; and you won't mind, will you, Hetty? Yes; I was crying when you went out because mamma would not give me any cherries."
"And see now what I have in my pocket!" exclaimed Hetty; "and if I had not forgotten all about them. I ran after the woman and got two lovely bunches for you. Look, Miss Flo."
She produced the cherries, not very much improved by their sojourn in her pocket; in fact, they were quite warm and a good deal crushed. But Flo was not inclined to be critical.
"Oh, how kind! But mamma said—I do not think I ought to eat them, Hetty. But it was very kind of you."
Now Hetty, you must remember, was under the impression that it was only the expense that had prevented Mrs. Eyre from buying the cherries. She had not heard her tell the child that she could not have them because they always made her ill. And as to the idea that cherries, no matter how unripe, or how knocked about in a warm pocket, could disagree with any one, it was far indeed from Hetty's mind. She had been one of those lucky children who can eat anything, green apples, sloes, bilberries, or even bad cherries, and never feel a bit the worse.
"I don't think your mamma would mind," said she; "but I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll just put them into Miss Lina's little basket, and lay it here on the table till the mistress comes home."
"Take me in your arms, Hetty, and carry me up and down, just for a minute."
Hetty did so, and then the child consented to be read to. Generally, she was very particular about Hetty's pronunciation, and corrected her frequently, like the old-fashioned scrap she was. This evening, however, she listened in silence; she was looking hard at the cherries.
"There's the clock, Miss Flo. I must run and see after the cooking; but I shall not be long."
She ran downstairs, and made what haste she could to return. But while she was absent poor little Flo had contrived to reach the little basket, and had eaten up every one of the cherries. She had been gazing at them, and longing for them, and telling herself that mamma would not let her have them, and that Hetty would give them to Edgar and Lina; and I think it was the vision of the delicious cherries disappearing down their throats, that finally conquered the poor child. She meant to tell Hetty, but when she heard her coming, she was ashamed; and putting the stalks and stones into the basket, she dropped it between the back of her sofa and the wall. And poor "Heedless Hetty," coming in just then, never missed the basket, nor thought about the cherries again, until, when going to bed that night, she took from her pocket four big brown pennies, and remembered why she had "broken into her sixpence," as she said to herself.