“Empty your basket right on to the table, Becky. Did your mother send ’em?”
“No; mother’s sick,” replied Becky, a little defiantly, for the allusion to scrapes had struck her as not exactly polite under the circumstances. “No, Mrs. York; I thought I’d pick up something myself. Here’s a bottle of wine, a jar of preserves, and a box of sardines,” placing them upon the table. “If they will do Mr. York any good, you’re welcome to them.”
“Why, they’re real nice, and we’re ever so much obliged to you, Becky. Where did you get them?”
Becky was silent a moment. She had not expected such a question, was not prepared to tell the truth, and would not lie, lying being an infirmity which she detested; not, however, from any prompting of her moral nature, but because she thought it a cowardly way of getting out of a scrape.
“Do you think it polite, Mrs. York, to ask so many questions when people take the trouble to bring you things?” she said, at last, with an abused look in her eyes.
“No, I don’t, Becky,” replied Mrs. York, with a laugh. “It’s real mean, and I’ll say no more. You’re a dear, good girl, and you deserve a better bringing up than you’re getting now. Here’s Silly,—Silly, do look here; see what these dear children have brought your father—wine, preserves, sardines! Ain’t they kind?”
Silly stopped short in the doorway, and looked in astonishment first at the table then at Becky.
“Wine, preserves, sardines! Becky Sleeper, where did you get those things?”
“It’s none of your business,” replied Becky. “I didn’t come here to be asked questions.”