Norton said no more, but he looked very much disgusted with this state of society. He silently watched what Matilda was doing, without putting in any hinderance or hinting at any annoyance further, which, she thought, was very good of him. Instead of that, he looked after the fire, and lifted the kettle when it was needful. Matilda, as yesterday, made the tea, and spread bread and butter, and cooked a herring; and then had the satisfaction of seeing the poor old woman luxuriating over what was to her a delicious meal. She had said very little since their coming in, but eyed all they did, with a gradual relaxing of the lines of her face. Something like pleasure, something like comfort, was stealing into her heart, and working to soften those hard lines. Matilda waited now until the meal should be quite finished before she brought forward anything of different interest.
"That's a new kettle," was the first remark, made while Matilda was clearing away the remains of the supper.
"How do you like it?" said Norton.
The old woman looked at him, she had done that a great deal already, and answered, "Who be you?"
"I'm the fellow that brought the kettle from the shop," said Norton.
"Whose kettle is it?"
"It ought to be your's—it's on your stove."
"It is your's, Mrs. Eldridge," said Matilda.
"Well, I hain't had a tea-kettle," said the old woman, meditatively, "since—I declare, I don't know when 'twas. I hain't had a tea-kettle, not since my old un fell down the well. I never could get it out. That one hadn't no kiver."
"Don't let this one get down in the well," said Norton.