“I wanted to get back and finish this, so as to take it in,” said the girl, making the machine rattle like distant firing.
“Did you meet Mr Fred?”
“Fred? No, mother,” was the reply, as the girl started, coloured, and the consequence was a tangle of the threads and a halt. “Has he been here?” she continued, as with busy fingers she tried to set the work free once more.
“Yes, just now, and set out to meet you. I wonder how you could have missed him.”
There was a busy pause for a few minutes, during which some work was hastily finished; and while Mrs Shingle kept watching her child from time to time uneasily, the latter rose from the machine, and began to double up the jacket upon which she had been at work, and to place it with a couple more lying close by on a black cloth.
“I hope you don’t encourage him, Jessie,” said Mrs Shingle at last.
“Mother!” exclaimed the girl, and her face became like crimson—“how can you?”
“Well, there, there, I’ll say no more,” exclaimed Mrs Shingle—“only it worries me. Now, make haste, there’s a dear, or you’ll be late. Don’t stop about, Jessie; and, whatever you do, don’t come back without the money. Your uncle’d sure to come or send to-day, and it’s so unpleasant not being ready.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can, mother,” said Jessie briskly.
“And you won’t stop, dear?”