"You'll think on me on Tuesday, Mary. That's the day we shall hoist
our blue Peter, Jack Harris says."

Mary was heartily sorry when the door closed; it seemed like
shutting out a friendly sunbeam. And her father! what could be the
matter with him? He was so restless; not speaking (she wished he
would), but starting up and then sitting down, and meddling with her
irons; he seemed so fierce, too, to judge from his face. She
wondered if he disliked Will being there; or if he were vexed to
find that she had not got further on with her work. At last she
could bear his nervous way no longer, it made her equally nervous
and fidgety. She would speak.

"When are you going, father? I don't know the time o' the trains."

"And why shouldst thou know?" replied he gruffly. "Meddle with thy
ironing, but donnot be asking questions about what doesn't concern
thee."

"I wanted to get you something to eat first," answered she gently.

"Thou dost not know that I'm larning to do without food," said he.

Mary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. No! he looked
savagely grave.

She finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the food she
was sure her father needed; for by this time her experience in the
degrees of hunger had taught her that his present irritability was