“They talk a deal about Australia, Tony; and, indeed, I sometimes think I 'd like to go there myself. I read in the 'Times' t' other day that a dairy-maid got as much as forty-six pounds a-year and her board; only fancy, forty-six pounds a-year! Do you know,” added she, in a cautious whisper, “I have only eighteen pounds here, and was in rare luck too, they say, to get it.”
“What if we were to set out together, Dolly?” said he, laughing; but a deep scarlet flush covered her face, and though she tried to laugh too, she had to turn her head away, for the tears were in her eyes.
“But how could you turn dairymaid, Dolly?” cried he, half reproachfully.
“Just as well, or rather better, than you turn shepherd or gold-digger. As to mere labor, it would be nothing; as to any loss of condition, I 'd not feel it, and therefore not suffer it.”
“Oh, I have no snobbery myself about working with my hands,” added he, hastily. “Heaven help me if I had, for my head would n't keep me; but a girl's bringing up is so different from a boy's; she oughtn't to do anything menial out of her own home.”
“We ought all of us just to do our best, Tony, and what leaves us less of a burden to others,—that's my reading of it; and when we do that, we 'll have a quiet conscience, and that's something that many a rich man could n't buy with all his money.”
“I think it's the time for the children's dinner, Miss Stewart,” said the grim lady, entering. “I am sorry it should cut short an interview so interesting.”
A half-angry reply rose to Tony's lips, when a look from Dora stopped him, and he stammered out, “May I call and see you again before I go back?”
“When do you go back, young gentleman?” asked the thin lady.
“That's more than I can tell. This week if I can; next week if I must.”