“The year’s begun well,” he said. “I ain’t one to count my chickens before they’re hatched, but I never had such lambs in my life and the quality’s as high as the numbers.”
“And no more than you deserve,” said his wife; “rewards come where they are due, and such a man as you did ought to be looked after. Oh, dear—there’s Jenny again, I’m afraid, Lydia.”
Mrs. Trivett departed a third time and presently returned.
“A little bit of temper, I’m afraid. She’s crying out for an orange to suck, and that’s the last thing she can have.”
“I wouldn’t call it temper,” argued Jenny’s mother. “No child of mine have got what you’d call temper, Lydia.”
“That’s where we don’t agree then,” answered her sister-in-law. “I’m fond of Jenny, as you well know; but what she’s got to fight against is temper, in my opinion. We mustn’t spoil her.”
“If that happens, it won’t be me, nor yet her father that does the harm,” declared Mary placidly. “Where children come, you’ll generally find that wisdom is sent to manage them, and I do think that Tom and me know something about how to manage our own.”
“It’s so long ago since you had your daughter to bring up, that very like you’ve forgotten the early stages, Lydia,” suggested Tom.
“And in any case, though God knows I’d never have whispered it to you if you hadn’t said Jenny suffered from temper—in any case, when you look at Medora, you can’t be none too sure your way of upbringing was the best,” murmured Mrs. Dolbear.
Mrs. Trivett smiled to herself and threaded another needle. She knew Mary very well and was not in the least concerned for this little flash. It meant nothing whatever. Mary was a worm who only wriggled if one of her progeny was trodden on. There was another shout from Jenny and Lydia took no notice, while both Tom and Mary looked at her inquiringly.