“Supper will be ready in five minutes, Tom,” said his mother, rather a delicate-looking woman, of refined appearance, notwithstanding she was dressed in a cheap calico.
“Are you tired, Tom?” asked his little sister Tillie, whose full name, never used at home, was Matilda.
“Not much, Tillie, but I’ve got a famous appetite.”
“I am sorry I haven’t got something better for you, Tom,” said his mother. “I have only a hot potato, besides tea, and bread and butter.”
“Why, that is good enough, mother,” said Tom, cheerfully.
“You ought to have meat after working hard all day in the shop, my boy; but meat comes so high that I don’t dare to have it on the table every day.”
“Too much meat might make me savage, mother,” said Tom laughing. “I wish we could have it oftener, for your sake. Anything will do for me. When I get older I shall earn higher wages, and then we’ll live better.”
“It’s very uncomfortable to be poor,” said Mrs. Thatcher, sighing. “Poor children, if your father were only living you would fare better. I little dreamed when he went to California, eight years ago, that he would never come back.”
“Mr. Simpson and father went to California together, didn’t they, mother?”
“Yes. They were both poor men at the time. Mr. Simpson was no better off than your father, but now—your poor father is in his grave, and John Simpson is one of the richest men in Wilton.”