Bryda, who was opening her box to bring out her presents for Bet—a large crimson neckerchief with a border, a bow of ribbon to match for her cap, and a pair of long mittens—did not reply.
'What do you think, Bryda? Shall we have all the trouble back again at Easter?'
'Oh, no; let's hope not,' Bryda said carelessly. 'See, do you like these things? They are all for you.'
'Oh! they are beautiful! But, dear, you must have spent too much money on me.'
'Not I. Why, child, I had five pounds wages, and I have got a lot left, and I am going to give Aunt Doll this warm shawl, and the dear old daddy a pipe, and yet I have three pounds left to last me till midsummer.'
'Ah, midsummer!' Betty said. 'We shall know by then.'
'Know what?' Bryda said sharply.
'Know whether we are sold up or not.'
'Well, let us have peace now, and forget everything but how we love each other; and oh! Bet, I have so much to tell you. I have read so many books while madam is asleep. The Vicar of Wakefield, and Paradise Lost, and Mr Pope's poetry, and history—and then there is poor Tom Chatterton, his verses are lovely!'
'Chatterton!' Betty said, 'who is he? Oh, yes, I remember—the apprentice who lives in the kitchen, and you went to see his mother.'