"Wake up, child," said the mother, giving Nannie a gentle shake; "the
sun's high in the heavens, and it's lazing we are in our blessed bed."
No wonder they pull the nice spread over them, and sink down again upon
the soft pillows, feeling that there could be no greater luxury on
earth. "But it must not make them idle," Mrs. Bates says, and so Nannie
jumps up and dresses the baby, while her mother prepares the breakfast.
Was there ever stove like that! There's a pleasant smell to the polish
as it burns off, and the wood has such a crackling, cheery sound; and
the hot steam from the Indian cakes sends forth an inviting odor as the
brown sides are turned upward.
Never mind if it is midsummer! the windows are open, and the superfluous
heat escapes, and the fresh air mingles with and tempers the warmth of
the room, so that it is nice and comfortable; it is so much better and
more wholesome than the damp, dark basement. There is a slight tinge
upon baby's cheek already, and Nannie doesn't look quite so pale and
sickly as she stands before the little mirror to brush her hair. "Oh!
an attic's the place, mother! isn't it?" says she, as she danced about
the room with Winnie. "We can breathe better up here, and Winnie'll grow
stout and healthy, for the sun comes in here," and she smoothed her tiny
palm over a bright beam that lay upon the child's head, and kissed it as
if it were a living, grateful presence. Winnie, too, crowed, and jumped,
and twisted her wee fingers in the warm rays, and seemed quite conscious
that something great and good had happened to her. The mother
participated in the joy, but as they sat down to a comfortable
breakfast, and she missed the red features that had so long been
opposite, her knife and fork dropped from her hands, and the food was
salted with bitter tears.
"Mother," said Nannie, putting down her untasted cake, "ye'll be
breaking your heart for the dead father, and then what'll Winnie and me
do? I'll not eat a morsel till ye dry your tears and help me!" and she
folded her hands and sat gazing upon her mother, with the drops in her
own eyes, until she saw her make an effort to eat. It was a quiet meal,
though, and soon over, and the child was left to tidy the house, while
the mother went forth to sell her wares. She did not mind so much being
repulsed now, for even if she failed to profit by her day's labor, there
was a willing friend to fall back upon, so that there was no fear of
starving; so, with a light step, she trudged along, and the people
wondered what had come over the poor huckster woman.
There was such a winning, cheerful sound in her voice as she tapped at
the window and said, "Any thing to-day, ma'am?" they could not let her
go without purchasing something--a piece of tape, or a few pins, or a
bunch of matches. It did not matter if they were at breakfast, father
could wait a minute for his coffee, and mother would write an excuse for
the children to take to school, so they open the window, and make their
bargains, and hand out the pennies, and the happy woman goes tripping
along, lighter both in basket and heart, and the breakfast has an
uncommon relish, so all think as they gather around the table again.
Charity is a capital seasoner.