“Come now—how many rivers have you seen?” inquired Tom.
“Lots of them.”
“And you have never been out of your native State.”
“I have been to Boston, and New York, and New Orleans. How strange that you should forget it,” replied Berty, wrathfully.
“What’s made you mad, Berty?” inquired Tom, with a brotherly air.
“You know,” she said, sulkily, “you’re dying to tease me.”
“Poor little girl,” murmured Tom, under his breath. Then he said, aloud, “Peter Jimson is in our house morning, noon, and night now.”
“Don’t I know it!” exclaimed Berty, indignantly, “and you are encouraging him, and you can’t bear him.”
“Come now, Berty,” said Tom, protestingly. “‘Can’t bear’ is a strong expression. I never thought much about him till he began sending business my way. I tell you that makes a lot of difference. It isn’t in human nature to look critically at a man who gives you a helping hand in the struggle for existence. Unless he’s a monster, which Jimson isn’t.”
“And he has helped you?” asked Berty, curiously.