James T. Boulton

They sat down to tea. John, at the end of the table near
the door, was almost lost in the darkness. Their faces were
hidden from each other. After the first piece of bread, the
girl asked:"Can I have cobbler's toast, mother?"

"Can I?" said John.

The mother hesitated awhile.

"Yes," she said at last,"only it's a waste of butter, and you
generally want twice as much if you have toast."

The girl crouched against the fender slowly moving a thick
piece of bread before the fire. The lad, his face a dusky mark
on the shadow, sat watching her, transfigured as she was in the
hot red glow.

"I do think it's beautiful to look in the fire," said she
pensively.

"Do you?" said her mother. "Why?"

"It's so red, and full of little hot caves--and it feels nice so,
and you can fair smell it."*

"It'll want mending directly,"* replied her mother. "And
then if your father comes he'll carry on and say there never is
a fire when a man comes home wet from the pit. A public
house is always warm enough though."

There was silence till the boy said complainingly:"Make
haste, our Annie*."

"Well, I am! I can't make the fire do it no faster*, can I?"

"She keeps waflin* it about so's to make 'er slow," grumbled
the boy.

"Don't have such an evil imagination, child," replied her
mother. "I'm sure it's done now, Annie, you're only making
all the butter drip out. Look!"

"I don't like it soft on the buttery side," complained the
girl quietly, looking at her piece of bread where the butter was
bubbling in places, with patches browning elsewhere.

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