“God bless him—that’s right. We must see, Jem, and keep him fat.”
“For what, mother?”
“For Monday fortnight at the fair. He’s to be—sold!”
“Lightfoot!” cried Jem, and let the bridle fall from his hand; “and will mother sell Lightfoot?”
“Will? no: but I must, Jem.”
“Must! who says you must? why must you, mother?”
“I must, I say, child. Why, must not I pay my debts honestly; and must not I pay my rent, and was not it called for long and long ago; and have not I had time; and did not I promise to pay it for certain Monday fortnight, and am not I two guineas short; and where am I to get two guineas? So what signifies talking, child?” said the widow, leaning her head upon her arm. “Lightfoot must go.”
Jem was silent for a few minutes—“Two guineas, that’s a great, great deal. If I worked, and worked, and worked ever so hard, I could no ways earn two guineas afore Monday fortnight—could I, mother?”
“Lord help thee, no; not an’ work thyself to death.”
“But I could earn something, though, I say,” cried Jem, proudly; “and I will earn something—if it be ever so little, it will be something—and I shall do my very best; so I will.”