“You must only take what you can pack in one big chest,” I said.
“But no chest would hold what I want to take,” whimpered the poor little woman. “I declare if I’d known that I was to give up everything I have scraped together all these years I wouldn’t have consented to go. Here, Esau, what are you going to do with those ornaments?”
“Set ’em aside for the broker.”
“Esau, I must take them.”
“All right, mother. We’ll have a ship on purpose for you, and you shall take the kitchen fender, the coal-scuttle, the big door-mat, and the old four-post bedstead.”
“Oh, thank you, my dear; that is good of— Esau! you’re laughing at me, and you too, Mr Gordon. I declare it’s too bad.”
“So it is, mother—of you. Once for all, I tell you that you must pack things that will be useful in one big chest, and you can take a few things that you’ll want on the voyage and in the waggon in a carpet bag.”
“But it’s ruinous, my dear—all my beautiful things I’ve taken such pride in to be sacrificed.”
“Oh, do hark at her!” cried Esau, sticking two fingers in his ears, and stamping about. “I wish to goodness I’d never had no mother.”
“Then you’re a cruel, ungrateful boy, and you’ll break my heart before you’ve done. Mr Gordon, what am I to do?”