“That’s right—that’s right. Then I am easy,” said Mr. Garth, taking up his hat. “But it’s hard to run away with your earnings, child.”
“Father!” said Mary, in her deepest tone of remonstrance.
“Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home,” was her last word before he closed the outer door on himself.
“I suppose your father wanted your earnings,” said old Mr. Featherstone, with his usual power of unpleasant surmise, when Mary returned to him. “He makes but a tight fit, I reckon. You’re of age now; you ought to be saving for yourself.”
“I consider my father and mother the best part of myself, sir,” said Mary, coldly.
Mr. Featherstone grunted: he could not deny that an ordinary sort of girl like her might be expected to be useful, so he thought of another rejoinder, disagreeable enough to be always apropos.
“If Fred Vincy comes tomorrow, now, don’t you keep him chattering: let him come up to me.”