ways
put it off.

They came in as handy now as a hole in an orchard wall. And Elsie
wondered why I had never shown myself quite so clever at school. I
could easily have told her the reason, but didn't.

I had not found the shelf of poetry then, which father always kept
locked. Besides, I did not want to muss up Elsie's young instincts,
which were sprouting beautiful.

This was all very well, but the end of the Christmas holidays was
approaching, when Elsie would need to go back to her teaching at Mr.
Mustard's. I did not like to think about that. For not only would
Elsie have to go back to the little Bridge End house where Nance Edgar
lived, but I should have the whole care of my mother, which was no
light matter.

And so I would have had; but one day old Mrs. Caleb Fergusson arrived.
She had known mother from the time they were little girls together, and
my mother called her Susy. And when she had heard all about the
uselessness of Grace Rigley, our maid-of-all-work, who, really, said my
mother, "was so handless that she dropped everything--worse than a
man-body in a house!--and dirty!--and not to be trusted to rise in the
morning!--and no washer, bless you! But oh, the trouble o' servant
lassies in the country! Certes, it's enough to turn your hair grey!
And grey mine would have been but that I ken my poor good-man is coming
back, and it would never do for him to find me worn lookin' and aged
like!"

And mother tried her best to smile. And I was as sorry as if it had
all been my fault, just to see her.

Well, there was nothing but talk of this kind between Mistress Caleb
Fergusson from the Common Farm and my mother. And I thought they were
settled for hours, as comfortable as two old hens chunnering among the
warm dust by a bankside. So, as I got pretty tired of such talk, I
sneaked out, and made a pretence to look at the firm's books--though
John Brown, our cashier, knew all about them a thousand times better
than I did. From there I stepped over to the packing and despatching
department, where I put off the best part of an hour.

For though I can stand the steady ditter-clatter of old folks' tongues
for a good while in the dark--when I can sit near Elsie and, if she
will let me (as a brother) hold her hand--it takes me all I know to put
in ten minutes of it in broad daylight, my poor mother with her eye on
me (her only hope and pride!), and telling the Pride every other minute
for goodness' sak