“You’ll take no breakfast out of this house,” was the reply.
“Why, mother?—for a poor sick old woman.”
“Let her go to the parish.”
I now became angry myself. I took up the teapot and walked away into the back kitchen: my mother rose and followed me, insisting upon my putting the teapot down; but I would not, and I poured out the tea into a little milk-can. I did not answer her, but I felt that I was right and would not give in, and she was afraid to attempt force. My mother then ran back to the table, caught up the sugar-basin and carried it upstairs, singing as she went, at the highest pitch of her voice:
“What are little girls made of, made of
Sugar and spice, and all that’s nice;
And that’s what girls are made of!”
While my mother was away, little Virginia poured her cup of tea, which was already sweetened, into the can. I seized some bread and butter, and before my mother came down I was clear of the house. Old Nanny made a good breakfast; the doctor came, and said that she was much better and would soon be well. The doctor had not left long before Peter Anderson came and told me to go and mind my business, and that he would sit by old Nanny. Old Ben, who had heard of it, also called in, and he sat up with her the next night.
“Did I not tell you that there were others who cared for you, Nanny?” said I, a few days afterwards.
“Yes, you did, Jack, but I did not believe you; the world is better than I thought it was. But how will you pay the doctor, Jack?”
“The doctor ’tended you for nothing; he told me so the first night.”
“Well, and that widow, too; it’s kind of her to send me tea and sugar, and such nice things to eat.”