"No, wait a bit. Only to my mother,
I mean, just at present."
"And the soldiers," continued Deborah--"they're roaring for
breakfast; what shall I give them?"
"A halter," he had almost said, but he caught himself up in time, and
answered, "What you can--bread, beef, beer--"
"Bread! beef! beer!" almost shrieked Deborah, "when she knows the
colonel man had the last of our beer; beef we have not seen for two
Christmases, and bread, there's barely enough for my lady and the
children, till we bake."
"Well, whatever there is, then," said Walter, anxious to get rid of
her.
"I could fry some bacon," pursued Deborah, "only I don't know whether
to cut the new flitch so soon; and there be some cabbages in the
garden. Should I fry or boil them, Mistress Rose? The bottom is out
of the frying-pan, and the tinker is not come this way."
The tinker was too much for poor Walter's patience, and flinging away
from her, he exclaimed, "Mercy on me, woman, you'll plague the life
out of me!"
Poor Deborah stood aghast. "Mistress Rose! what is it? you look
wildly, I declare, and your hood is all I don't know how. Shall I
set it right?"
"Mind your own business, and I'll mind mine!" cried Walter.
"Alack! alack!" lamented Deborah, as she hastily retreated down
stairs, Charlie running after her.
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