“Is there any more bread in the closet?” asked Martin.
“No,” said Floy: “it is all gone.”
“Then I must bring some home when I return to supper.”
“I have been thinking,” said Floy, hesitatingly, “that, if you would trust me to do it, and would bring home the materials, I would make some bread; and that would be cheaper than buying it; and, besides, it would give me something to do.”
“What!” asked Martin, as he looked, with an air of surprise, at the diminutive form of little Floy, “do you know how to make bread? How came a child like you to learn?”
“Mother used to be sick a good deal,” said Floy, “and was confined to her bed, so that she could do nothing herself. She used to direct me what to do; so that, after a while, I came to know how to cook as well as she.”
“Well, what shall I have to bring home?” asked the miser, whom the hint of its being cheaper had enlisted in favor of the plan.
“Let me see,” said Floy, as she sat down and began to reflect: “there’s flour and saleratus and salt. But we’ve got the salt; so you need only get the first two.”
“Very well; I will attend to it. Oh! I forgot to ask what sewing you knew how to do. Can you make shirts?”
“Yes; I have made a good many.”