“I can't,” said Ida, pale but resolute.
“You can't,” repeated Peg, furiously. “Didn't you promise to do whatever I told you?”
“Except what was wicked,” interrupted Ida.
“And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home with me.”
Peg, walked in sullen silence, occasionally turning round to scowl upon the unfortunate child, who had been strong enough, in her determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the woman whom she had every reason to dread.
Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder.
Dick was lounging in a chair, with the inevitable pipe in his mouth.
“Hilloa!” said he, lazily, observing his wife's movements, “what's the gal been doing, hey?”
“What's she been doing?” repeated Peg; “I should like to know what she hasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy some gingerbread of the baker, as I told her.”
“Look here, little gal,” said Dick, in a moralizing vein, “isn't this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece of ingratitude, when we go to the trouble of earning the money to pay for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't willing to go in and buy it?”