"But please, Barry, come now; because it will give mother so much more trouble if you don't. She has the things to clear away after you're done, you know."
"Trouble! so much talk about trouble! I don't mind trouble. I don't want any supper, I tell you."
Nettie knew well enough he would want it by-and-bye, but there was no use in saying anything more, and she said nothing. Barry got his kite together and went off. Then came a heavier step on the stairs, which she knew; and she hastily went into the other room to see that all was ready. The tea was made, and Mrs. Mathieson put the smoking dish of porridge on the table, just as the door opened and a man came in—a tall, burly, strong man, with a face that would have been a good face enough if its expression had been different and if its hue had not been that of a purplish-red flush. He came to the table and silently sat down as he took a survey of what was on it.
"Give me a cup of tea! Have you got no bread, Sophia?"
"Nothing but what you see. I hoped you would bring home some money, Mr. Mathieson. I have neither milk nor bread; it's a mercy there's sugar. I don't know what you expect a lodger to live on."
"Live on his board,—that'll give you enough. But you want something to begin with. I'd go out and get one or two things—but I'm so confoundedly tired, I can't."
Mrs. Mathieson, without a word, put on a shawl and went to the closet for her bonnet.
"I'll go, mother! Let me go, please. I want to go," exclaimed Nettie, eagerly. "I can get it. What shall I get, father?"
Slowly and weariedly the mother laid off her things; as quickly the child put hers on.
"What shall I get, father?"