“My name’s Smith,” I said, taking out a screwdriver. “My machine: how does it go? Thought I’d come and see.”
Her face lit up in a moment, and she came forward eagerly.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said, “I can’t quite manage this.”
She pointed to the thread regulator, and the next minute I was showing her that it was too tight, and somehow, in a gentle timid way, the little witch quite got over me, and I stopped there two hours helping her, till her eyes sparkled with delight, as she found out how easily she could now make the needle dart in and out of some hard material.
“Do you think you can do it now?” I said.
“Oh, yes, I think so; I am so glad you came.”
“So am I,” says I gruffly; “it will make it all the easier for you to earn the money, and pay for it.”
“And I will work so hard,” she said earnestly.
“That you will, my dear,” I says in spite of myself, for I felt sure it wasn’t me speaking, but something in me. “She been ill long?” I said, nodding towards her mother.
“Months,” she said, with the tears starting in her pretty eyes; “but,” she added brightly, “I shall have enough with this to get her good medicines and things she can fancy;” and as I looked at her, something in me said—