Here Tackleton walked out, and Mrs. Fielding, sitting bolt upright in front of Dot, gave her such a marvelous collection of receipts and rules that would, if Dot had carried them out, have utterly destroyed the young Peerybingle, even if he had been an infant Samson.
Now Dot brought her needlework out of her pocket, and had a whispering chat with May while the old lady dozed, and after a while Caleb and Bertha joined them, and all found it a very short afternoon.
Then as it grew dark, since it was the solemn rule that Bertha should do no household tasks on the days of the picnics, Dot trimmed the fire, and swept the hearth, and set the tea-tray out, and drew the curtains, and lighted a candle. Then she played an air or two on a rude kind of harp which Caleb had made for Bertha, and played them very well; for Nature had made her delicate little ear as choice a one for music as it would have been for jewels—if she had had them to wear.
By this time, it was the usual hour for tea, and Tackleton came back again, to share the meal and spend the evening.
When it was night, and tea was over, and Dot had nothing more to do after washing the cups and saucers—when the time drew near for the carrier’s return, Dot began to grow nervous. Every time she heard the sound of distant wheels, her color came and went, and she was restless. Not as good wives are when listening for their husbands. No, no, no. It was a different sort of restlessness from that.
Soon wheels were heard very near—horse’s feet—the barking of a dog—and then the scratching of Boxer’s paw.
“Whose step is that?” cried Bertha, starting up.
“‘Whose step’?” said the carrier, standing in the door, his brown face ruddy as a winter berry from the keen night air. “Why, mine.”
“The other step,” Bertha said. “The man’s tread behind you!”
“She’s not to be deceived,” observed the carrier, laughing. “Come along, sir. You’ll be welcome, never fear!”