“He is new to public speaking. He will get over it.”
“And I made him such a thrilling hobgoblin,” continued Berty, in an aggrieved voice. “Why, I had nightmare last night just in dreaming about it.”
“A hobgoblin?” said Grandma, questioningly.
“Yes—to stop him. It was on the last page of his manuscript. You remember when he came to the end of his paper, he just stopped a minute, smiled a sickly smile, and went on. Why, that hobgoblin didn’t frighten him a bit. It inspired him. What was he talking about? What do people talk about when they ramble on and on? I can never remember.”
“Berty,” said Mrs. Travers, shrewdly, “you are tired and excited. You would better come home. There is Mrs. Provis looking in the gate. She will keep an eye on the children.”
“Oh, Mrs. Provis,” said Berty, hurrying to the gate, “won’t you come in and sit awhile till I go home and get something to eat? I’ll come back presently and lock up.”
“Yes, miss,” said the woman, readily. “That’s a little thing to do for you. I guess this street takes store of what you’ve done for our young ones.”
“They’re my young ones, too,” said Berty, proudly. “I live on the street—we’re all neighbours. Now I’ll go. I won’t be long. Your eldest girl can get the supper ready for your husband, can’t she?”
“That she can, miss.”
Berty walked away with her grandmother, and the woman, gazing after her, said, “Bless your black head. I’d like to hear any one say anything agin you in River Street.”