opened, had a quiet hint, through Fleda, that if he
had a mind to take the working of the saw-mill he
might, for a consideration merely nominal. This
offer was immediately and gratefully closed with; and
Hugh’s earnings were thenceforward very important
at home. Fleda had her own ways and means.
Mr. Rossitur, more low-spirited and gloomy than ever,
seemed to have no heart to anything. He would
have worked perhaps if he could have done it alone;
but to join Didenhover and his men, or any other gang
of workmen, was too much for his magnanimity.
He helped nobody but Fleda. For her he would
do anything, at any time; and in the garden and among
her flowers in the flowery courtyard he might often
be seen at work with her. But nowhere else.
Chapter XXII.
Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some that thinke
they make
The better cheeses, bring ’hem;
or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would
commend
This way to husbands; and whose baskets
beare
An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare.
Ben Jonson.
So the time walked away, for this family was not now
of those “whom time runneth withal,”—to
the second summer of Mr. Didenhover’s term.
One morning Mrs. Rossitur was seated in the breakfast-room
at her usual employment, mending and patching; no
sinecure now. Fleda opened the kitchen door and
came in folding up a calico apron she had just taken
off.
“You are tired, dear,” said Mrs. Rossitur
sorrowfully;—“you look pale.”
“Do I?”—said Fleda, sitting
down. “I am a little tired!”
“Why do you do so?”
“O it’s nothing” said Fleda cheerfully;—“I
haven’t hurt myself. I shall be rested
again in a few minutes.”
“What have you been doing?”
“O I tired myself a little before breakfast
in the garden, I suppose. Aunt Lucy, don’t
you think I had almost a bushel of peas?—and
there was a little over a half bushel last time, so
I shall call it a bushel. Isn’t that fine?”
“You didn’t pick them all yourself?”
“Hugh helped me a little while; but he had the
horse to get ready, and I was out before him this
morning—poor fellow, he was tired from yesterday,
I dare say.”
Mrs. Rossitur looked at her, a look between remonstrance
and reproach, and cast her eyes down without saying
a word, swallowing a whole heartful of thoughts and
feelings. Fleda stooped forward till her own forehead
softly touched Mrs. Rossitur’s, as gentle a
chiding of despondency as a very sunbeam could have
given.
“Now aunt Lucy!—what do you mean?
Don’t you know it’s good for me?—And
do you know, Mr. Sweet will give me four shillings
a bushel; and aunt Lucy, I sent three dozen heads
of lettuce this morning besides. Isn’t that
doing well? and I sent two dozen day before yesterday.
It is time they were gone, for they are running up
to seed, this set; I have got another fine set almost
ready.”
