“He is, indeed, a whole week;—but how burning hot your hand is still.”
“Are you sure he will stay?” inquired her mother. “How do you know? Who told you so? Tell me all quick.”
“Attorney Case told me so; he can get him a week’s longer leave of absence, and he has promised he will.”
“God bless him for it, for ever and ever!” said the poor woman, joining her hands. “May the blessing of heaven be with him!”
Susan closed the curtains, and was silent. She could not say Amen. She was called out of the room at this moment, for a messenger was come from the Abbey for the bread-bills. It was she who always made out the bills, for though she had not a great number of lessons from the writing-master, she had taken so much pains to learn that she could write a very neat, legible hand, and she found this very useful. She was not, to be sure, particularly inclined to draw out a long bill at this instant, but business must be done. She set to work, ruled her lines for the pounds, shillings and pence, made out the bill for the Abbey, and despatched the impatient messenger. She then resolved to make out all the bills for the neighbours, who had many of them taken a few loaves and rolls of her baking. “I had better get all my business finished,” said she to herself, “before I go down to the meadow to take leave of my poor lamb.”
This was sooner said than done, for she found that she had a great number of bills to write, and the slate on which she had entered the account was not immediately to be found; and when it was found the figures were almost rubbed out. Barbara had sat down upon it. Susan pored over the number of loaves, and the names of the persons who took them; and she wrote and cast up sums, and corrected and re-corrected them, till her head grew quite puzzled.
The table was covered with little square bits of paper, on which she had been writing bills over and over again, when her father came in with a bill in his hand. “How’s this, Susan?” said he. “How can ye be so careless, child? What is your head running upon? Here, look at the bill you were sending up to the Abbey? I met the messenger, and luckily asked to see how much it was. Look at it.”
Susan looked and blushed; it was written, “Sir Arthur Somers, to John Price, debtor, six dozen lambs, so much.” She altered it, and returned it to her father; but he had taken up some of the papers which lay upon the table. “What are all these, child?”
“Some of them are wrong, and I’ve written them out again,” said Susan.
“Some of them! All of them, I think, seem to be wrong, if I can read,” said her father, rather angrily, and he pointed out to her sundry strange mistakes. Her head, indeed, had been running upon her poor lamb. She corrected all the mistakes with so much patience, and bore to be blamed with so much good humour, that her father at last said, that it was impossible ever to scold Susan, without being in the wrong at the last.