Mr. Britain promptly complied.
“I think,” said Mrs. Britain, applying herself to her pockets and drawing forth an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled papers, a very kennel of dogs’ ears: “I’ve done everything. Bills all settled—turnips sold—brewer’s account looked into and paid—’bacco pipes ordered—seventeen pound four paid into the Bank—Doctor Heathfield’s charge for little Clem—you’ll guess what that is—Doctor Heathfield won’t take nothing again, Ben.”
“I thought he wouldn’t,” returned Britain.
“No. He says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he’d never put you to the cost of a halfpenny. Not if you was to have twenty.”
Mr. Britain’s face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard at the wall.
“A’nt it kind of him?” said Clemency.
“Very,” returned Mr. Britain. “It’s the sort of kindness that I wouldn’t presume upon, on any account.”
“No,” retorted Clemency. “Of course not. Then there’s the pony—he fetched eight pound two; and that a’nt bad, is it?”
“I’m glad you’re pleased!” exclaimed his wife. “I thought you would be; and I think that’s all, and so no more at present from yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the papers, and lock ’em. Oh! Wait a minute. Here’s a printed bill to stick on the wall. Wet from the printer’s. How nice it smells!”