“Don’t do so!” he exclaimed, putting the hand away; then blushed for shame, and kissed her.
They went to bed. Bread would have put them to sleep. But after a long time—
“John,” said one voice in the darkness, “do you remember what Dr. Sevier told us?”
“Yes, he said we had no right to commit suicide by starvation.”
“If you don’t get work to-morrow, are you going to see him?”
“I am.”
In the morning they rose early.
During these hard days Mary was now and then conscious of one feeling which she never expressed, and was always a little more ashamed of than probably she need have been, but which, stifle it as she would, kept recurring in moments of stress. Mrs. Riley—such was the thought—need not be quite so blind. It came to her as John once more took his good-by, the long kiss and the short one, and went breakfastless away. But was Mrs. Riley as blind as she seemed? She had vision enough to observe that the Richlings had bought no bread the day before, though she did overlook the fact that emptiness would set them astir before their usual hour of rising. She knocked at Mary’s inner door. As it opened a quick glance showed the little table that occupied the centre of the room standing clean and idle.
“Why, Mrs. Riley!” cried Mary; for on one of Mrs. Riley’s large hands there rested a blue-edged soup-plate, heaping full of the food that goes nearest to the Creole heart—jambolaya. There it was, steaming and smelling,—a delicious confusion of rice and red pepper, chicken legs, ham, and tomatoes. Mike, on her opposite arm, was struggling to lave his socks in it.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Riley, with a disappointed lift of the head, “ye’re after eating breakfast already! And the plates all tleared off. Well, ye air smairt! I knowed Mr. Richlin’s taste for jumbalie”—