"More money?" said Hugh smiling.
"Yes--this garden business is all very well, but it doesn't come to any very great things after all, if you are aware of it; and, Hugh, I want to get aunt Lucy a new dress. I can't bear to see her in that old merino, and it isn't good for her. Why, Hugh, she couldn't possibly see anybody, if anybody should come to the house."
"Who is there to come?" said Hugh.
"Why nobody; but still, she ought not to be so."
"What more can you do, dear Fleda? You work a great deal too hard already," said Hugh sighing. "You should have seen the way father and mother looked at you last night when you were asleep on the sofa."
Fleda stifled her sigh, and went on.
"I am sure there are things that might be done--things for the booksellers--translating, or copying, or something,--I don't know exactly--I have heard of people's doing such things. I mean to write to uncle Orrin and ask him. I am sure he can manage it for me."
"What were you writing the other night?" said Hugh suddenly.
"When?"
"The other night--when you were writing by the firelight? I saw your pencil scribbling away at a furious rate over the paper, and you kept your hand up carefully between me and your face, but I could see it was something very interesting. Ha?--" said Hugh, laughingly trying to get another view of Fleda's face which was again kept from him. "Send that to uncle Orrin, Fleda;--or shew it to me first and then I will tell you."