“Dad dear, I’ll not do it again if ye say no.”
“I did not say ’no,’ I said yesterday ye gave the men an all-meat broth an’ it was no holiday.”
The old man’s voice grew petulantly angry, the childlike appeal of his wife’s eyes, the trembling lips, her gentle sweetness, irritated him.
“Very well, dear.”
“Mother, they’ve milk on the farm, which is more’n they’d have in their own homes; if they lived at home they’d be scramblin’ with their children to suck herrin’-bones. Stirabout with plenty of milk is good for any man, an’ it’s especially good for a workin’ man; they have all the stirabout they can eat here, an’ some kind of meat-broth an’ tart every day.”
“Very well, dear, I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”
“Aye, an’ mother, I found one of the tubs of butter in the dairy touched; there was most a half a pound of butter taken out. Do ye know who took it?”
“Dad, I took it for Mrs. Powell the carpenter, who’s ill.”
“For Mrs. Powell the carpenter! An’ then how are we goin’ to pay the landlord, think ye, if ye go takin’ the butter to sick people?”