“Mr. Jenkins tells me ye didn’t make it yourself,” said Betto Griffiths, suspicion still on her sharp features.
“Well, it came,” replied Janny, glancing appealingly at Ariel, “it—came from Liverpool.”
“Janny dear,” corrected Ariel, with a look straight into her eyes, “ye mean the material did.”
“Aye, Ariel,” answered Janny, with a mixture of childlike obedience and confusion, “aye, just the material.”
Ariel talked a great deal; the window was admired, commented upon, there were demands for future assistance, envious exclamations of delight to Mrs. Jenkins, who was given no chance to say a word, and the little group departed.
“Well, Janny!” exclaimed Ariel.
“Ariel dear, I—I saw them—them laughin’ an’—then—ye,” the flood-gates burst and Janny threw herself sobbing into Ariel’s arms.
“There, there, dear, little lamb!” he comforted, his own eyes wet with tears.
“I thought—thought it would—be so—pretty—an’ people’s been—expectin’ me—to—to make changes—an’—an’—Betto Griffiths said improvements, an’ Ariel—I—I——” Janny’s voice caught and she sobbed afresh.
“Tut, tut, little lamb, dearie, don’t. Janny, Janny, don’t cry.”