“Oh, Betty!” said Verena.
“I do, my dear; I do. I can’t put up with the ways of them sort—never could. I like you well enough, young ladies, and your pa; and I’d stop with you willing—so I would, honey—but I can’t abide the likes of her.”
“All the same, she’s come, Betty, and we must have something for dinner. Have you anything in the house?”
“Not a blessed handful.”
“Oh, Betty!” said Verena; “and I told you this morning, and so did nurse. We said we must have dinner to-night at seven o’clock. You should have got something for her.”
“But I ain’t done it. The stove’s out of order; we want the sweep. I have a splitting headache, and I’m just reading to keep my mind off the pain.”
“But what are we to do? We must get her something.”
“Can’t she have tea and bread-and-butter? We’ve half-a-pound of cooking butter in the house.”
“Are there any eggs?”
“No. I broke the last carrying it across the kitchen an hour ago. My hands were all of a tremble with the pain, and the egg slipped.”