"He won't come home while he's got a copper in his pocket, that you may depend on. Go to sleep again, child, till I've finished."
But Little Prue, now wide awake, made no attempt to obey. Rising to her feet, she stealthily drew one of the large wooden chairs to the mantelshelf, and, mounting, craned her neck. The shelf was high, and Prue was a very small child. It was only by tiptoeing, and running the danger of tumbling into the fire, that she ascertained what she wished to know. Stepping down like a cat, she crept to her mother's side.
"There's a penny on the mantelpiece, mother."
"Don't worry; how can I get on with my work if you do? It's father's penny, for his supper beer; he put it there before he went out, so that he couldn't spend it till he came home." Aside she said, with a sidelong look of pity at Prue, "I daren't touch it!"
"I'm so 'ungry, mother!" pleaded Prue, plucking her mother's gown. "My inside's grinding away like one o'clock."
Mrs. Flower was seized with a fit of irresolution, and she muttered, "If I look sharp, I shall be back with the washing money before he comes in." Stepping quickly to the fireplace, she took the penny from the mantel, and thrust it into Prue's hand. "There; go and get a penn'orth of peas-pudding."
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Little Prue joyfully, and was running out, when the door was blocked by the form of her father, who had returned sooner than he was expected.
Mr. Flower was slightly intoxicated--his normal state. However much he drank, he never got beyond a certain stage of drunkenness; by reason, probably, of his being so thoroughly seasoned.
"Hallo, hallo!" he cried, grasping his little girl by the shoulder. "Is the house on fire? Where are _you_ off to in such a hurry?"
"Nowhere, father," replied Prue, slipping her hand with the penny in it behind her back.