She came back to her work, catching eagerly at the homely suggestion of duty.
"I'll finish them," she said, taking a dish out of her daughter's hand; "you brighten up the fire and get the potatoes."
The girl walked away without looking up. When she came into the room a little later with an armful of wood, Mrs. Wickersham was standing by the stove.
"Emmy," she said in a whisper, taking hold of her daughter's dress and drawing her toward her, "don't tell your brother I had to pay cash to the balers. It took all the ready money I had in the house: I'd rather he didn't know it."
"What's the matter, mother?" asked the girl, looking steadily into the older woman's worried face.
"He wants five dollars next week," whispered Mrs. Wickersham, nodding toward the door; "I hain't got it."
The girl threw the wood into the woodbox and stood gazing intently at it. She had a quaint, oval face, and the smooth folds of her dark hair made a triangle of her high forehead. Two upright lines formed themselves in the triangle as she gazed. She turned away without speaking, and took a pan from the shelf and went into the shed-room for potatoes. When she came back, she walked to her mother's side, and said in a low voice,—
"You needn't worry about the money any more, mother. I'll get it for Ben."
"You, Em!"
"Yes; I'm going over to Bassett's raisin-camp to pick grapes."