“I don’t mind the heat,” she cried. “I’ll run up to the store and get your soap and things.”
“Well, I’ll say that’s real nice of you,” conceded Sallie.
“That is,” stammered Jacqueline, “if you want to pay me ten cents for going.”
She turned as red as fire as she said the words. She had never felt so awful in her life, and after drinking the milk that these women had been kind enough to give her. But she thought of Grandma, without her cup! and Caroline, without her beads! What was her own pride or even decency by comparison? She just had to get some money.
“Well, of all the nerve!” Hannah broke the silence that seemed to Jacqueline to have lasted an hour. “I’ll pay you ten cents to go—and you can pay me ten cents for the milk you’ve drunk.”
Jacqueline quailed. Grown-up people somehow always had one at a disadvantage.
“I’m going home now,” she quavered. “Good-by.”
“Hold on!” bade Sallie. “I’d rather pay a dime than walk to the store and back, and I can’t let this afternoon go wasted, when to-morrow like as not will be a scorcher. You scoot up to the store and fetch my things, and if you’re back in twenty minutes you shall have your ten cents.”
“I’ll run!” promised Jacqueline. She was all smiles again, and at her smile Hannah melted.
“Don’t let her run her legs off,” she boomed. “And she can get me the saleratus while she’s about it.”