"A quarter past, and mother still over the newspaper—and she told me she wouldn't be ten minutes! It's too bad. I know just what will happen. There'll be nothing ready, and Clara will be sent out for some tinned salmon or something at the last minute. No, I won't have it!"
And Betty jumps up, all aglow with anger, and running down the passage, flings open the little front parlour door.
"Mother!"—very sharply—"don't you know how late it is?"
Mrs. Langdale looks up rather vacantly. "Late? how can you say so? I'm sure I haven't been here over a quarter of an hour."
"You've been here a whole hour, and if you don't make the pudding at once the children will have to do without altogether!"
"How you do hurry and flurry one, Betty. Well, I'll see to it."
Betty goes back to the sitting-room.
"I suppose I must begin at something," she sighs wearily—"not that it makes much difference."
Again her eyes fall on the stockings. Hours of hard work would not get rid of that hopeless pile.
On the first evening after her return home, whilst as yet all her good resolutions were hot in her, she had mended and put away all father's socks; but since then there has seemed no time for anything.