Nell, of Shorne Mills | Page 2

Molly," said the boy. "Miss Nell is tired, and is
lying down for a little while; resting, you know."
"I--I promise! I apologize! You--you shall have the shilling!" gasped
the girl, half angrily, half haughtily.
He rose in a leisurely fashion, got back to his window seat, and held out
his long, shapely hand.
She shook herself, put up one hand to her hair, and took a shilling from
her pocket with the other.
"Tiresome boy!" she exclaimed. "If I live to be a hundred, I shall never
know why boys were invented."

"There are lots of other things, simpler things, that you will never know,
though you live to be a Methuselah, my dear Nell," he said; "one of
them being that twenty-seven and eight do not make thirty-nine."
"Thirty-nine? Why, of course not; thirty-five!" she retorted. "That's
where I was wrong. Dick, you are a beast. There's the book, Molly, and
there's the money----Oh, give me back that shilling, Dick; I want it! I've
only just got enough. Give it me back at once; you shall have it again, I
swear--I mean, I promise."
"Simple child!" he murmured sweetly. "So young, so simple! She really
thinks I shall give it to her! Such innocence is indeed touching! Excuse
these tears. It will soon pass!"
He mopped his eyes with his handkerchief, as if overcome by emotion,
and the exasperated Nell looked at him as if she meant another fight;
but she resisted the temptation, and, with a shrug of her shoulders,
pushed the book and money toward the patient and unmoved Molly.
"There you are, Molly, all but the shilling. Tell him to add that to the
next account."
"Yes, miss. And the missis' chocklut; it's just the time?"
Nell glanced at the clock.
"So it is! There'll be a row. It's all your fault, Dick. Why don't you go
for a sail, or shrimping, or something? A boy's always a nuisance in the
house. I'll come at once, Molly. There!" she exclaimed, as a woman's
thin voice was heard calling in a languid and injured tone:
"Molly!"
"''Twas the voice of the sluggard----'" Dick began to quote; but Nell,
with a hissed "Hush! she'll hear you!" ran out, struggling with her
laughter. Five minutes later, she went up the stairs with a salver on
which were a dainty chocolate service and a plate of thin bread and
butter, and entering the best bedroom of the cottage, carried the salver

to a faded-looking woman who, in a short dressing jacket of dingy pink,
sat up in the bed.
She was Mrs. Lorton, the stepmother of the boy and girl. She had been
pretty once, and had not forgotten the fact--it is on the cards that she
thought herself pretty still, though the weak face was thin and hollow,
the once bright eyes dim and querulous, the lips drawn into a
dissatisfied curve.
"Here is your chocolate, mamma," said the girl. She hated the word
"mamma"; but from the first moment of her introduction to Mrs. Lorton,
she had declined to call her by the sacred name of "mother." "I'm afraid
I'm late."
"It is ten minutes past the time," said Mrs. Lorton; "but I do not
complain. I never complain, Eleanor. A Wolfer should at least know
how to suffer in silence. I hope it is hot--really hot; yesterday it was
cold--quite cold, and it caused me that acute indigestion which, I trust,
Eleanor, it will never be your lot to experience."
"I'm sorry, mamma; but yesterday morning you were asleep when I
brought it in, and I did not like to wake you."
"Not asleep, Eleanor," said Mrs. Lorton, with an air of long-suffering
patience--"no, alas! not asleep. My eyes were closed, I have no doubt;
but I was merely thinking. I heard you come in----Surely that is not all
the cream! I have few fancies, Heaven knows; but I have always been
accustomed to half cream and half chocolate, and an invalid suffers
acutely from these deprivations, slight and trifling though they may
appear to one in your robust, I had almost said savage state of health."
"Isn't there as much as usual? I will go and see if there is some more,"
said the girl, deftly arranging the tray. "See, it is quite hot this
morning."
"But it will be cold before you return, doubtless," sighed Mrs. Lorton,
with saintly resignation. "And, Eleanor, may I venture to ask you not to
renew the terrible noise with which you have been filling the house for

the last half hour. You know how I dislike crushing the exuberance of
your animal spirits; but such a perfectly barbaric noise tortures my poor
overstrained nerves."
"Yes, mamma. We'll--I'll be quiet."
"Thank you. It is a great deal to ask. I am aware