"Good!" laughed Bessie, capering about, quite unmindful of bare ankles, "Good! I shouldn't wonder much if they were. Why, Martin Wray, I'm to sell 'em, and get money for 'em—plenty of it—till my pockets are so full that they cannot hold any more—there!"
"Money!" said Martin, "you don't mean to say people buy cresses? What can they do with them?"
"Eat 'em," replied Bessie, promptly; "mother says rich folks buy them to make into salads,—mustard, pepper, salt, vinegar, and all that sort of thing, you know. Mother says they are just in their prime now."
Martin stooped and helped himself to a handful of the cresses. He did not seem to like their flavor, but made wry faces over them.
"Dear, dear," he said, "how they bite! They will take my tongue off."
"That's the beauty of 'em," said Bessie, coolly, "that's a proof that they are good. Mother says when they grow flat and insipid they don't bring a fair price."
"But isn't this late in the year for them?" asked her visitor.
"No," was the answer; "this is just the best of the fall crop, and they will last for a month or six weeks, and maybe all winter, if the season is mild. May is the great spring month for them, and October the one in the autumn. Mother told me she brushed the snow away from a little patch last Christmas, and there they were just as fresh and green as ever."
"And who are you going to sell them to?" asked Martin.