'Four shillings to a penny!' says my mother.

'I daresay,' says my sister; 'but after you paid him the money I
heard you in the little bedroom press. What were you doing there?'

My mother winces. 'I may have given him a present of an old
topcoat,' she falters. 'He looked ill-happit. But that was after
I made the bargain.'

'Were there bairns in the cart?'

'There might have been a bit lassie in the cart.'

'I thought as much. What did you give her? I heard you in the
pantry.'

'Four shillings was what I got that chair for,' replies my mother
firmly. If I don't interfere there will be a coldness between them
for at least a minute. 'There is blood on your finger,' I say to
my mother.

'So there is,' she says, concealing her hand.

'Blood!' exclaims my sister anxiously, and then with a cry of
triumph, 'I warrant it's jelly. You gave that lassie one of the
jelly cans!'

The Glasgow waiter brings up tea, and presently my sister is able
to rise, and after a sharp fight I am expelled from the kitchen.
The last thing I do as maid of all work is to lug upstairs the