"My victuals aint bad when they's cold," put in Mrs. Purcell here.

"Well, Prissy, can't you do that?" asked her husband.

"You can do it if you like," she said, getting up at last from the table, whence the great heap of beans had disappeared. "It ain't nothin' to me what you do."

Mr. Purcell demanded no more of a concession from his housekeeper, but went forthwith to one cupboard after another and fetched forth a plate and cup and saucer, knife and fork and spoon, and finally bread, a platter with cold fried pork on it, and some b.u.t.ter. He had not washed his hands before shewing this civility; and Rotha looked on in doubtful disgust.

"Where's the coffee, Prissy?"

"The last of it went down your throat. You never leaves a drop in the coffee pot, and wouldn't if there was a half a gallon. What's the use o'

askin' me, when you know that?"

"Can I have a gla.s.s of milk?" said Rotha.

The milk was furnished, and she began to make a very good breakfast on bread and milk.

"Aint there a bit o' pie, Prissy?" asked Mr. Purcell.

"You've swallowed it. There aint no chance for nothin' when you're round."

Upon which Mr. Purcell laughed and went out, glad no doubt to have the matter of breakfast disposed of without any more trouble. But Rotha eat slowly and thoughtfully. Breakfast was disposed of, but not dinner. How was she to go on? She meditated, tried to gather patience, and at last spoke.

"It is best to arrange this thing," she said. "Meals come three times a day. If you will call me, Mrs. Purcell, I will come. If you will not do that, will you set by things for me?"

"Things settin' round draws the flies. We'd be so thick with flies, we couldn't see to eat."

"What way will you take, then?"

"_I_ don' know!"

All the while she was actively and deftly busy; putting her beans in water, preparing her table, and now sifting flour. Rotha came and stood at one end of the table.

"I should not have thought," she said, "that anybody that loved the gospel of John, would treat me so."

A metallic laugh answered her, which she could not help thinking covered some feeling. The woman's words however were uncompromising.

"I didn't say I loved no gospel of John."

"No, not in words; but the little book tells of itself that somebody has loved it."

"I'll put it away, where it won't tell nothin'."

"My aunt pays you for my board," Rotha went on, "and she expects that you will make me comfortable."

"_What_ does she pay for your board?" said Mrs. Purcell, lifting up her head and flashing her black eyes at Rotha.

"I do not know what. I did not read her letter. You must know."

"She don't pay nothin' for you!" said the woman scornfully. "That's Mis'

Busby! _She's_ a good Christian, and that's the way she does. She'll go to church, and say her prayers regular, and be a very holy woman; but she won't pay n.o.body nothin' if she can help it; and she thinks us'll do it, sooner 'n lose the place, and she can put you off on us for nothin'--don't ye see? So much savin' to her, and she can put the money in the collection. I don't believe in bein' no Christian! Us wouldn't do the like o' that, and us aint no Christians; and I like our kind better 'n her kind."

Rotha stood petrified.

"You must be mistaken," she said at length. "My aunt may not have mentioned it, but it is of course that she pays you for your time and trouble, as well as for what I cost you."

"You don't cost _her_ nothin'," said Mrs. Purcell. "That's all she cares for. Us knows Mis' Busby. Maybe you don't."

The last words were scornful. Rotha hardly heeded them, the facts of the case had cut her so deep. "Can it be possible!" she exclaimed in a stupefied way. Mrs. Purcell glanced at her.

"You didn't know?"

"Certainly not. Nothing would have made me come, if I had. Nothing would have made me! But I am dependent on my aunt. I have no money of my own."

Two bitter tears made their way into Rotha's eyes. "Of course you do not want to take trouble for me," she went on. "I cannot much blame you."

"Me and Joe has to live and get along, as 'tis; and it takes a sight o'

work to take care o' Joe. 'Taint feedin' no chicken, to feed Joe Purcell; and Prissy Purcell has a good appet.i.te her own self; and Joe, he won't eat no bread as soon as it's beginnin' to get dry; an' I has to bake bread all along the week. An' Joe, he's always gettin' into the bushes and tearin' his things, and he won't go with no holes in 'em; and nights I has to sit up and put patches. I put patches with my eyes shut, 'cause I's so sleepy I can't hold 'em open. An' he wears the greatest sight o'

clothes of any man in Tanfield. He wears three shirts; there's his red flannel one, and one o' unbleached muslin--you know that is warm, next his skin; 'cause he won't have the flannel next his skin; and then there goes a white shirt over all; and the cuffs and the collar must be starched and stiff and shiny, or he aint satisfied. I tells him it aint no use; it won't stay so over five minutes; but anyhow, he is satisfied."

"I shouldn't think it was wholesome to wear so many clothes," said Rotha.

"He thinks 'tis."

"You should coax him out of it."

"Prissy Purcell has tried that, and she won't try it no more. There aint no coaxin' Joe. If he wants to do a thing, he'll do it his own self; and if he don't want to do it, you can't move him."

Rotha paused a minute, to let the subject of Joe Puree 11 drop.

"Well, Mrs. Purcell," she said then, "I am very sorry I am on your hands.

I do not know exactly what to do. I will write to my aunt, and tell her how I am situated, and how _you_ are situated; but till her answer comes, how shall we do?"

"She won't send no answer!" said Mrs. Purcell, in a much modified manner however. "Us knows her, Joe and me. She's got what she wants, and she's satisfied. She don't care for my trouble, nor for your trouble. She's great on savin', Mis' Busby is. She don't never pay nothin' she hadn't need to."

"I am very sorry," said Rotha bitterly. "I will see if I can find some way of earning the money, Mrs. Purcell, so that I can pay you for the cost and trouble I put you to. But I must have time for that; and meanwhile, what will you do?"

"Us wouldn't think so much of it," Mrs. Purcell went on, "if she didn't set up for bein' somethin' o' extras. I don't make no count o' no such Christians. Mis' Busby wouldn't miss the Communion!--" And the speaker looked up at Rotha, as if to see what she thought on the subject.

"There are different sorts of Christians," said Rotha. "Meanwhile, how shall we arrange things, Mrs. Purcell?"

"Will all sorts of Christians get to heaven," was Mrs. Purcell's response, the query put with her sharp black eyes as well as with her lips.

"Why no! Of course not. Christians are not all alike; but it is only true Christians whom the Lord will call his own."

"How aint they alike? how is they different?"

"Real Christians? Well--some of them are ignorant, and some are wise.

Some have had good teachings and good helpers, and some have had none; it makes a difference."

"I thought they was all one."