“I reckon that is what men call a dividing of labour,” saith Father in his dry way. “I to pay the pennies, and Edith to make the blots. Nay, my maid: the two must come of one hand.”
“Then both of yours, Father,” saith Milly, saucily.
“Item, for every unkind sentence touching an other, two pence to the poor.”
“Lack-a-daisy!” cries Milly; “I shall be ruined!”
“Truth for once,” quoth Aunt Joyce.
“I am sorry to hear it, my maid,” saith Father.
“Item, for every sentence disrespectful to any in lawful authority over the writer thereof, sixpence to the poor.”
“Father,” quoth Milly, “by how much mean you to increase mine income while this book is a-writing?”
Father smiled, but made no further answer.
“Item, for a gap of so much as one week, without a line herein writ, two pence to the poor.”