“More than a mile off.”
“Is it a nice street?”
“Not very,” said Dick. “Only poor folks live there.”
“Are you poor?”
“Little girls should be seen and not heard,” said her mother, gently.
“If you are,” said Ida, “I’ll give you the five-dollar gold-piece aunt gave me for a birthday present.”
“Dick cannot be called poor, my child,” said Mrs. Greyson, “since he earns his living by his own exertions.”
“Do you earn your living?” asked Ida, who was a very inquisitive young lady, and not easily silenced. “What do you do?”
Dick blushed violently. At such a table, and in presence of the servant who was standing at that moment behind his chair, he did not like to say that he was a shoe-black, although he well knew that there was nothing dishonorable in the occupation.
Mr. Greyson perceived his feelings, and to spare them, said, “You are too inquisitive, Ida. Sometime Dick may tell you, but you know we don’t talk of business on Sundays.”