“I guess that smells fine,” said the peddler, rubbing his hands.
“What kind o’ livin’ have you had lately, then?” asked Ralph.
“Nothin’ solid or pleasant—birds and dry jerked beef.”
“Poorish! Well, it’s better farin’ yar, so turn to; we’re all at home.”
All sat down—the woman, who had black hair and eyes, and tawdry finery, and a coral necklace, and a watch, and a dirty lace cap, at the head, Ralph Regin at the end of the table, Kate and the peddler opposite the fire. The supper was plentiful and well cooked. There was liquor in plenty, and the peddler, who was very weary, ate his meal in silence, swallowed a horn of corn-juice, lit his old pipe, and stretched himself on a bench by the fire. Kate helped to clear away, and then sat down also, and took up a book—a strange thing up there, and yet there were many in that house, for Mrs. Regin had been almost a lady once, and had, despite crime and guilt, educated her child up to a certain time. Kate now wanted no assistance, and one who wished to obtain her smile, often brought her such books as he thought would suit her taste.
Presently the peddler-merchant rose, yawned, said he must start “airly,” and taking a light, wished all good-night, and went to bed. Kate, who had never turned over a single leaf of her book, and who had been watching every motion and look of the man who called himself her father, also lit a candle and went to bed. Her room was beside that of the peddler, but on a level with the kitchen.
“Now, Martha,” said Ralph Regin, in a low, hushed voice, hissed forth from between his teeth, “that peddler’s box is full of dollars and watches. He must sleep in the pool.”
“No more murter,” replied the woman, sinking into a chair, and hiding him from her with her hands.
“Hush! the girl may be listening!”
And Ralph rose, crawled across the room, but stopped as he heard Kate singing merrily at her window.