His mother looked up when he entered, but she saw, by the expression of his face, that he had not succeeded.
“You must be tired, Harry,” she said. “You had better sit down and rest.”
“Oh, no, I’m not tired, mother. If you’ll tell me where the four-quart kettle is, I’ll go and pick some blueberries.”
“What will you do with so many, Harry?”
“Carry them to Mr. Mead. Every two days he sends a supply to market.”
“How much does he pay?” asked the widow, brightening up at this glimpse of money to be earned.
“Eight cents a quart, payable in groceries. It won’t be much, but will be better than nothing.”
“So it will, Harry. I don’t know but I can do better going with you than to stay at home and sew.”
“No, mother; you would be sure to get a headache, exposed to the sun in the open pasture. Leave me to pick berries. It is more suitable for me.”
“What time will you get home to dinner, Harry?”