“You haven’t put no brandy in!”
“Nay, feyther; I clean forgot to tell ye as there was scarce a drop left in bottle yesterday. I put the little drain that was left in tea-pot, but I’m afeared there weren’t enough to make mich difference.”
“The tay bain’t drawed at all, lass—it makes all that difference. Ye should ha’ towd me when I was goin’ to town yesterday as bottle were nigh empty.”
“Ah, that I should; but I forgot.”
And Maimie wrinkled up her forehead until her eyebrows nearly touched her fair fluffy fringe. Her father set down his cup with a kind of groan, and looked at her with eyes that seemed puzzled, well nigh tearful, in spite of their severity.
“Yigh, you’re a good hand at forgettin’, Maimie—ye met tak’ a prize for’t. There weren’t a bit o’ sauce wi’ the cowd pork to-day, and the taters was as hard as hard.”
Maimie coloured and looked down; the farmer gazed at her sternly for a full minute, and then made a sudden lunge at the youngest child who sat next to him.
“What’s wrong wi’ thy bishop, Maggie? One side is all tucked up.”
“It’s tore,” announced Maggie, with a certain triumph in a statement which must call down condemnation on her elder. “Our Maimie said as she’d mend it—she’ve been sayin’ she’ll mend it all the week.”
“Thou’rt a nasty little tell-tale, Maggie,” cried Maimie with some heat. “Ye never think for to remind me wi’out it’s jest at my busiest time—when I’m gettin’ dinner ready or summat.”