“Everybody’s goin’ home but us,” remarked René rather plaintively, making the tears spring to Desiré’s eyes, while the lines of Jack’s mouth became even more stern.
“Silly!” observed Priscilla. “We are home. Home’s where Jack and Desiré are.”
Desiré smiled up at Jack, and leaned back to squeeze her little sister’s arm.
“Shall we try to make our sales before supper, and then camp outside of town?” asked Jack; “or shall we eat, and then sell afterwards.”
“Sell first. Work before pleasure,” Desiré decided promptly.
At a house far beyond the church they came to a halt, and Desiré leaned from the wagon to call to a small boy in blue overalls, who sat on the gate watching them—“Tell your mother that old Simon’s wagon is here, please, and ask her if she wants anything.”
Without a word the little fellow slid down and ran into the house. Almost immediately a tall, loose-jointed man, whose resemblance to the child was marked, came out and crossed the yard.
“The missus is sick,” he explained, “but I know what she wants. She’s been talkin’ of nothin’ else for days. Buttons, five yards of calico, a pencil for the boy, and a few pounds of sugar. Got old Simon’s route for good?”
“I’m not sure. He’s sick in Yarmouth now.”
“So? That’s too bad. Are you going on up the Bay?”