“Sam!” cried Mrs Jenkles, trying to lay her hand on his mouth.
“And look here, old lady,” he continued, stroking her face; “when that does come off, which I hope it won’t be for scores o’ years to come, you keep werry, werry tight hold o’ my hand, and then, perhaps, I shall stand a chance of getting into heaven too.”
End of Volume One.
Love Minor.
Little Polly wiped her eyes after her happy thoughts; for the shower had passed, and the gleam of sunshine augmented till her face grew dimpled, and she went on stitching busily. It was very evident that she had some consolation—some pleasant unguent for the irritation caused by Aunt Lloyd; for at the end of half an hour she was singing away at some old Welsh ditty, in a sweet, bird-like voice, filling up, when she forgot the words, with a melodious little hum, which was only checked on the appearance of her tyrant, that lady mating occasional incursions. Sometimes Aunt Lloyd required table linen; then she came to unlock the press where the dessert was laid out, and hand it to the footman, counting the fruit on the dishes as she did so.
“Now, Robert, what are you looking at there?” she said, sharply, as she caught the man’s eyes straying in the direction of Polly. “Mind your work, if you please.”
Polly did not get snubbed, for she had been bending diligently over her stitching, which, as soon as the tray of dessert had gone, came in for a close inspection; but, as it was very neatly done, there was no complaint.
“Hold out your hands, child,” said Mrs Lloyd, suddenly; and she examined the finger roughened by the hard material and contact with the needle. “Ah, that stuffs too stiff; it shall be washed first. Mend those.”
The linen was doubled up, put away, and some soft material placed in the girl’s hands, over which she had been diligently at work one hour, when Mrs Lloyd returned for coffee from her stores, with which she again departed, muttering about “Such a set to bring down!” and Polly’s musical little voice began once more.