“It is impossible,” said Mr John.
“Do you want to wake up some day, sir,” cried the little woman firmly, “and find this poor, weak, suffering thing dying for want of help? Of course you don’t. Here, Esau,” she cried, throwing open the door.
“Yes, mother; more hot water?” came from the kitchen.
“No; you may begin to pack up. We’re going across the sea.”
Before Mr and Mrs John left us that night it was all settled; and when I returned from going part of the way with them, I found Esau and his mother hard at work, planning as to what was to be taken and what sold, Mrs Dean rousing her son’s anger as I entered the kitchen, and making him stamp.
“Why, what is the matter?”
“Mother is so obstinate,” he cried.
“Why, what about? Does she say now she will not go?”
“No, Mr Gordon, I only told him I must take my four flat-irons with me. They don’t take up much room, and take ’em I will. Why, bless the boys! do you think you won’t want clean shirts?”