"I'll know the reason first, though," answered Barry. "What are you going to get?"
"Father wants a bag of corn-meal, and a piece of pork, and some treacle; and you know I can't carry them all, Barry. I've got to get bread and milk besides."
"Hurrah!" said Barry; "now we'll have fried cakes! I'll tell you what I'll do, Nettie—I'll take home the treacle, if you'll make me some to-night for supper."
"Oh, I can't, Barry! I've got so much else to do, and it's Saturday night."
"Very good—get your things home yourself, then."
Barry turned away, and Nettie made her bargains. He still stood by, however, and watched her. When the pork and the meal and the treacle were bestowed in the basket, it was so heavy she could not manage to carry it. How many journeys to and fro would it cost her?
"Barry," she said, "you take this home for me, and if mother says so, I'll make you the cakes."
"Be quick, then," said her brother, shouldering the basket, "for I'm getting hungry."
Nettie went a few steps farther on the main road of the village, which was little besides one long street, and not very long either, and went in at the door of a very little dwelling, neat and tidy like all the rest. It admitted her to the tiniest morsel of a shop—at least there was a long table there which seemed to do duty as a counter; and before, not behind it, sat a spruce little woman sewing. She jumped up as Nettie entered. By the becoming smartness of her calico dress and white collar, the beautiful order of her hair, and a certain peculiarity of feature, you might know before she spoke that the little baker was a Frenchwoman. She spoke English quite well, but rather slowly.
"I want two loaves of bread, Mrs. August, and a pint of milk, if you please."