“Someone’s did that a-purpose!” said Clara, slowly, deliberately, staring, seeming to see neither McGibney nor Mrs. McGibney. “Me that thought I didn’t have a enemy in the world! Where would I get a enemy, me always kind to everybody? I had my heart set on that stove that only needed a little fire-clay. Someone’s bought it, just to annoy me. When the mirror went, I didn’t think nothing of it, but the stove too, is to annoy me. They won’t make nothing by that, and bad luck will come upon them for it.”
“Why, Clara, it only happened that way,” reasoned Mrs. McGibney. “Nobody would go and be as mean as that to you, specially as they’d have to spend money.”
“It’s tricks done me!” declared sullen, dogged Clara. “Oh, there’s somebody at the door. Maybe it’s him after me. Say I’m not here, Mrs. McGibney! On your life, don’t let him find me! I got to work for my living, anyway, and I’ll work for myself and not divide with no man. Never—oh, I guess it’s the kitchen table!”
“A kitchen table, Clara?” demanded McGibney. “Did you say a kitchen table?”
“Yes!” said Clara, brightening. “It’s nice! You can put it in the centre of your front room and maybe have ornaments onto it. It’s a very nice kitchen table.”
Door opened; a table thrust into the room; heels flying down the stairs.
“Don’t you think it’s nice?” Clara asked eagerly.
“Nice?” repeated honest McGibney. “Oh, is that the table?”
Scratched legs to it; two plain boards forming the top of it; heads of nails sunk in the boards, and once filled with putty; putty fallen out.
Clara shook it to show that the legs were firm. She would varnish it and cover it with a beautiful table cover she had seen in the five-and-ten-cent store, though there was one just as good in the three-and-nine-cent store.