At this moment a knock came at the door, and on going to open it, she found old Mrs. Seymour standing there with something in her hand.
"Mrs. Blunt," she said, "I guess you're wishin' as your husband had been with us this afternoon to have such a nice tea, now weren't you?"
Mrs. Blunt's colour rose, and she could have cried, she thought. At last she said, "Why, how could you know that, Mrs. Seymour?"
"I've had a husband myself, my dear, and a steady one too, like yours, and so I've brought this bloater if you'll excuse it, just to make a little relish for his tea. He isn't in, is he?"
"No," said Mrs. Blunt, "but——"
"No 'buts,' my dear. Just you cook it for him and tell him to ask no questions about it, but enjoy it as much as we did our tea up yonder."
She was gone before Mr. Blunt could say another word, and when she turned to the fire with her treasure, she thought she had never been so happy.
But were these tears that were coursing each other down her cheeks? How was that?
When her husband opened the door, expecting an untidy home and some dry bread, what was his astonishment to be greeted by an unusually cheerful-looking room, and a fragrant smell of frying fish.
His wife turned round with a smile.