“Bless the dear old Laureate! I’ll pattern after him if I can. But—it isn’t all rose-color, is it?”
“Sit down here one moment; you have five to spare. I want to remind you that though our Mr. Brook is so delightful and seems so young, he is still an old, old man. Be very gentle with him, even if he should get impatient and say sharp things to you. I do not know that he will; I only suggest what is liable to happen. Will you try to put your own impatience out of the question, dear?”
“I’ll leave it at home with you, Motherkin. I’ll be perfectly angelic, if I can. And I’m going to say, ‘A dollar a day, six dollars a week!’ to myself, continually. That’s going to be my rock of salvation, Motherkin! Six dollars a week for a whole year will be over three hundred dollars toward our home! And we’re all agreed on that. We all look forward to the day when we can go to Mr. Brook and say, ‘Please, sir, we’d like to buy The Lindens!’ Oh! I’m not afraid now; and I’m getting as mercenary as a Jew.”
“H’m-m! No comparisons. And I foresee that the money part will soon be the last in your mind as connected with your labor. However, time’s up! Off with you!”
“One moment more, Motherkin. What are you doing with that thing?”
“It is a rude little frame I tacked together to fade some embroidery silk upon.”
“Fade silk? Why?”
“Because I have none of the right shade for the work I have in hand; so the sunshine is to help me out. I will wind the threads from these spools about the frame, then place it in the sunshine—by that south window, I think—till it pales to the right tint.”
“H’m-m! If I could only run into the art store and buy you the right sort without all this trouble!”
“I’d rather have this fine light for my task than anything out of the art store, dearie. And I am so much stronger than when I came, a week ago.”