“I could amuse myself when I’ve nothing to do, father, when you and Jacob are away. I often sit down, after I’ve done all my work, and think what I shall do next, and at last I look out of the window and make faces at people, because I’ve nothing better to do. Now, father, you must let him learn me to read and write.”
“Well, Mary, if you will, you will; but recollect, don’t blame me for it—it must be all on your own head, and not on my conscience. I’ve lived some forty or fifty years in this world, and all my bad luck has been owing to having too much senses, and all my good luck to getting rid of them.”
“I wish you would tell me how that came to pass,” said I; “I should like to hear it very much, and it will be a lesson to Mary.”
“Well, I don’t care if I do, Jacob, only I must light my pipe first; and, Mary, do you go for a pot o’ beer.”
“Let Jacob go, father. I mean him to run on all my errands now.”
“You mustn’t order Jacob, Mary.”
“No, no—I wouldn’t think of ordering him, but I know he will do it—won’t you, Jacob?”
“Yes, with pleasure,” replied I.
“Well, with all my heart, provided it be all for love,” said Stapleton.
“Of course, all for love,” replied Mary, looking at me, “or Latin—which, Jacob?”