“Look at him,” she cried, “we are longing to finish the work quickly, and he thinks only of reading lines from his sweetheart.”
“I have no sweetheart,” replied Sandu gently.
“Who writes to you then?”
“My mother.”
“Your mother? She can’t know how to use a pen. Did you ever hear such a lie——”
“I do not lie.”
“Not lie? Hold your tongue! As if your mother knows how to write——” And she looked rather sulkily at Sandu, who moved on to the other pile of stretching-pegs.
At this moment one of the workmen told her that the letter really was from his mother, but that it was written by a Chinaman in the village.
“Then why didn’t he tell me?” she cried. “Am I supposed to know everything?” Sandu turned round. “But can you read?”
“Yes, mistress, I can.”