“Oh, Mr Mervyn, don’t go and tell everybody what a rude tomboy of a sister Tiny is blessed with. I am so ashamed.”
“Come along, little ones,” he said, laughing, as he stooped to pick up the tin, and at the same time handed Fin her basket.
“How nice the soup smells,” said Fin, mischievously.
“Yes; you promised to come and taste it some day,” said Mr Mervyn; “but you have never been. I’m very proud of my soup, young ladies, and have many a hard fight with Mrs Dykes about it.”
“Do you?” said Tiny, for he looked seriously at her as he spoke.
“What about?” said Fin, coming to her sister’s help.
“About the quantity of water,” said Mr Mervyn. “You know we’ve a big copper for the soup; and Mrs Dykes has an idea in her head that eight quarts of water go to the gallon, mine being that there are only four.”
“Why, of course,” laughed Fin.
“So,” said Mr Mervyn, “she says I have the soup too strong, while I say she wants to make it too weak.”
“And what does old Mrs Trelyan say?”