“I never steal,” said Floy, half indignantly. “Besides, I have no place to go to, if I should leave here.”
This was true; and Martin, considering that it would be against her interest to injure him in any such way,—an argument which weighed more heavily than any protestations on her part would have done,—at length said,—
“Well, you may stay,—at least, a while. I suppose you are hungry. There’s a loaf of bread in the closet. You may eat some of it; but don’t eat too much. It’s—it’s hurtful to the health to eat too much.”
“When will you be home to get some dinner?” asked the child.
“About noon. Perhaps I will bring some sewing for you to do.”
“Oh, I hope you will! It will seem so nice not to be obliged to be walking about the streets, but to be seated in a pleasant room, sewing!”
When Martin came home at noon, instead of finding the room cheerless and cold, as had been his wont, the fire was burning brightly, diffusing a pleasant warmth about the apartment. Floy had set the table in the centre of the room,—with some difficulty it must be confessed; for it was rickety, and would not stand even, owing to one of the legs being shorter than the rest. This, however, she had remedied by placing a chip under the deficient member. There was no cloth on; for this was an article which Martin did not number among his possessions. Floy had substituted two towels, which, united, covered perhaps half the table.
A portion of the loaf—for there was but one—she had toasted by the fire, and this had been placed on a separate plate from the other. On the whole, therefore, though it was far from being a sumptuous repast, every thing looked clean and neat; and this alone adds increased zest to the appetite. At least, Martin felt more of an appetite than usual; and, between them, the two despatched all that had been provided.