“NOW, David, it’s your turn.” Mr. Atkins leaned both hands on the counter. “What did you want?”
“Three pounds of Indian meal, if you please.”
“That’s easy got, an’ it’s fresh an’ sweet.” The storekeeper went over to the big box in the corner. “Thought I never should get round to wait on you. Beats all how some women trade. That Miss Pride ’ud finger everything in the place, an’ finally buy a lemon. Well, here you be!” He twisted up the paper bag with an extra twirl and handed it over the counter. “Well now, how’s things over to the little brown house?”
David reached up with a shaking hand for the paper bag.
Mr. Atkins picked up the knife and cut off a snip from the big yellow cheese, and began to chew it. “He’s too little,” he said to himself; “no, I’ve got to find some other way to help ’em. Hem! well—” and he cut off another snip, “I s’pose Polly finds it pretty easy to keep the little brown house goin’ these days, don’t she?”
David’s face turned quite white. If he could only forget how he had run out that very morning to get the kindlings behind the wood-pile, and Ben and Polly were talking!
“It’s every bit,” said Ben, turning his old leather purse upside down, “ten cents, Polly.”
“O dear—dear! What shall we do, Ben? The potatoes are ’most gone and everything is so much worse!”
“Don’t feel so bad, Polly. Things will get better, I guess,” said Ben.
And then Davie, peering around the wood-pile, saw him pat Polly’s shoulder.