“My father didn’t let my mother work when he was alive; but he—he died.” Billy bent lower over his weeding, and both were quiet.
It was May Nell who first broke the silence. She had been thinking. “It isn’t so very bad to have to work, is it? Your mama looks happier than my mama does. She said she’d rather wear calico and work ever so hard, and have papa at home, than be the richest, richest without him. She cries a lot—my mama does. And now—she’s crying—for me.” The last word was a sob.
“Here, here! You mustn’t do that,” Billy gently coaxed, rising and taking her hand. “You’ll make me draw salt water, too. And it don’t help, you know. I’ll tell you what—you can work some, gather the flowers. I’ll show you how. Mother puts ’em fresh in all the rooms for Sunday.” He bustled her up the terrace steps, brought scissors and basket, and, starting her on her pleasant task, began to mow the lawn.
“All over the house does she put them?” the child asked after she had snipped a fragrant heap.
“Yes. You see, she rents some of the rooms, and she says they must look extra nice on Sunday so the men won’t mosey off to the saloons.”
“‘Mosey’? Does that mean ‘little Moses’?”
He had hardly recovered from his laugh when two little girls appeared at the gateway. “There’s Twinnies! Come in, Kiddies, and see my new sister,” he called, as they hesitated.
“We came—we came to bring these,” one ventured timidly, and lifted one end of the basket they carried between them.
Billy peeped under the cover, not heeding the little girls’ protest. “Golly, May Nell! The Queen of Sheba won’t be in it ’long side of you.”
Mrs. Bennett heard anxiety in the voices of the visitors, and came out.