“You be still.” Miranda whirled him about picking at his sleeve gingerly, wherever she could find a place least besmeared, “That ain’t your work, an’ Pa ought to have ben ashamed to set you at it. O dear me, what a scrape he’s got us into,” she said to herself; “for Ma an’ me has got to get this boy clean enough to go home. Oh, mercy, do stand still,” she said aloud.
“My mother won’t want me to leave my work,” said Joel, loudly, at her, his black eyes flashing, “and I ain’t going to, so there.”
“Well, you keep still; I’ll give you some work to do.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, yes, do stand still; oh, mercy, what a mess!”
“What shall I do?” demanded Joel, smiling now. It was all right since he was going to work, and carry home some money to Mamsie. “Say, Miss Miranda, what’ll I do?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Do be still,” she twitched him into position again.
“You said you had some work for me,” said Joel, loudly. “You said so, your very own self.”
“Well, so I will give you some,” promised Miss Miranda, pushed into a corner. “There, you’re brushed, all I can get off of the nasty stuff. Now, you must come into th’ house.”
“Will you give me the work, then?” asked Joel, determined to have that settled before starting.