“That is quite right,” said Martin. “Some one, who was ill-disposed, might have entered and stolen,—that is, if he could have found any thing worth taking.”
“And now, sir, if you please, I’ll make your bed,” said the child, entering the room. “I’ve made the one I slept in.”
Martin looked on without a word; while Floy, taking his silence for assent, proceeded to roll back the clothes, shake the bed vigorously, and then spread them over again. Espying a broom at one corner of the room, she took it, and swept up the hearth neatly. She then glanced towards the miser, who had been watching her motions, as if to ascertain whether they met with his approval.
“So you can work?” said he, after a pause.
“Oh, yes! mother used to teach me. I wish,” said she, after a while, brightening up, as if struck with a new idea,—“I wish you would let me stay here: I would make your bed, take care of your room, and keep every thing nice. Besides, I could get your dinners.”
“Stay with me! Impossible. I don’t have much to do: besides, I couldn’t afford it.”
“It won’t cost you any thing,” said Floy, earnestly. “I know how to sew; and, when I am not doing something for you, I can sew for money, and give it to you.”
This idea seemed to produce some impression upon the old miser’s mind.
“But how do I know,” said he, a portion of his old suspicions returning,—“how do I know but you will steal off some day, and carry something with you?”