“I shall take no salary for a whole year, at least,” she said to herself, “and if Grace insists, why, I shall just use it in the housekeeping, and she will be none the wiser. But, oh dear, I do wonder how we shall manage to get through the winter without any ready money. And it will be such a long time until next harvest.”
The question of ways and means was a problem that she could get no light on, and she had to give it up and try to look as cheerful as possible when she reached Duck Flats.
The children and Tom were all out on the battered, twisted wheat trying to glean something from the ruin which might help out the food supplies for the long barren months stretching ahead of them. Tom had said that morning that he believed they might pick up a few bushels if only they worked hard enough, but it would have to be done at once, for already the district was black with birds which seemed to have scented the feast from afar, and had come in legions to partake.
“If Tom goes to Pentland Broads to-morrow, I will go out gleaning with the children,” Bertha said to herself, as she drove in at the open gate of the paddock and proceeded to unhitch old Pucker.
Grace was quite alone in the house, and the pathetic patience of her face stirred Bertha up to fresh courage. She dared not show the white feather herself with such an example before her, inspiring her to do the very best that was in her.
“Are you tired of being alone, dear? Would you like me to stay with you, or shall I go and put in a couple of hours in the fields helping the others?” Bertha asked, coming to stoop over the couch.
“Go and help them, if you feel you can,” replied Grace. “Tom sent Dicky in to see how I was getting on about half an hour ago, and the small boy said that they were picking up bushels and bushels, but I suppose one must allow something for youthful exaggeration. Still, every bushel saved is one bushel less to buy; for we can grind it in the little handmill for porridge, and we can rear a lot of chickens next spring. You see, there are so many ways of making the most of things, if one only sets about looking for them.”
Bertha nodded, and, slinging a pillow-case in front of her, she went off in a great hurry to take her share in the work that was going forward. Hearts were too full for much speech in these days of difficulty, and she and Grace had a trick of understanding each other without many words on either side.
The children hailed her coming with shouts of glee, for it would certainly give a zest to this rather monotonous sort of play if only Bertha were on hand to make things lively for them.
Grace and Tom had at first tried hard to make the small people call Bertha aunt, but somehow the title had never seemed to fit her, and so, at her own wish, she was only Bertha to them, and they loved her with a fervency that they might have given to an elder sister. She was just one of themselves, only a little bigger and a good bit wiser; for she could tell the most thrilling stories that surely anyone had ever heard, and they all eagerly demanded a story now to relieve their toil in picking up the wheat.