“Well, well! I suppose the young must have their dainties as long as the world lasts,” said Mr. Leeson. “Sit down, my dear, and eat. I will stand and watch you.”
“Won’t you eat anything, father?” said the girl. A curious expression filled her dark eyes. She longed for him to eat, and yet she could not help thinking how supporting and soothing and satisfying both those potatoes would be, and all that hunch of dry bread.
Mr. Leeson paused before replying:
“It would be impossible for you to eat more than one potato, and it would be a sin that the other should be wasted. I may as well have it.” He dropped into a chair. “Not that I am the least hungry,” he added as he took the largest potato and put it on his plate. “Still, anything is preferable to waste. What a pity it is that no one has discovered a use for the skins, for these as a rule have absolutely to be wasted! When I have gone through some abstruse calculations over which I am at present engaged, I shall turn my attention to the matter. Quantities of nourishing food are doubtless wasted every year by the manner in which potato-skins are thrown away. Ah! and this bread, Sylvia—how long has it been in the house?”
“I got it exactly a week ago,” said Sylvia. “It is quite the ordinary kind.”
“It is too fresh, my dear. In future we must not eat new bread.”
“It is a week old, father.”
“Don’t take me up in that captious way. I say we must not eat new bread. It was only to-day I came across a book which said that bread when turning slightly—very slightly—moldy satisfies the appetite far more readily than new bread. Then you will see for yourself, Sylvia, that a loaf of such bread may be made to go nearly as far as two loaves of the ordinary kind. You follow me, do you not, singing-bird?”
“Yes, father—yes. But may I eat my potato now while it is hot?”
“How the young do crave for unnecessary indulgences!” said Mr. Leeson; but he broke his own potato in half, and Sylvia seized the opportunity to demolish hers.