“Is this the place where they mend lace, ma’am?”
“Yes. C’est moi.”
“Well, they sent a lot in this bundle. They said they wanted it done right away, if you could. It’s a curtain. The kitten tore it, I guess. He’s always scampering up the curtains.”
“Yes.” (Yes is one of the few English words Jeannette is quite sure about, so she seldom adds to it in her replies, when she can avoid doing so.)
“When shall I come after it?”
“Maunday—next—week,” Jeannette slowly answers, and takes the package the lad has brought.
His errand is done; why does he linger? Have the brown eyes, in a rapid glance or two, taken in more than they would if they were not so big and generous? The low ceiling with the laths bared of plaster here and there, the scant furniture, the tumble-down stove, the uneven, uncarpeted floor, the plants in the window—sickly for lack of light—the withered little lace-mender shivering in her shawl for lack of fire, the boy on the couch yonder, clutching at a sunbeam, gazing dreamily into space; he has seen all; he has heard the hollow cough, he winks hard to keep from taking the decided shape of tears something that for an instant dims his bonny eyes.
“Has he been sick a good while?” he whispers.