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"My gracious, Sara! I believe you get more mail than even Squire Scrantoun. Just look at these!" There was another roll, evidently pamphlets, and two letters, one from Professor Grandet, the other in an unknown hand. She hurriedly opened the professor's, and struggled through its tangled and much abbreviated chirography, looking up finally with a pale, puzzled, yet radiant face.
But the children were needing clothes, and she herself must have a cotton gown; so, as the little store of silver in the old blue teapot had been almost exhausted by the simple funeral requirements, she put on her sunbonnet one afternoon, and leaving the baby, with many injunctions, to the care of the twins, started to call on Squire Scrantoun, who had for many years been her father's banker.
She would not have her blamed for her foolishness now she could not defend herself, poor thing! And they would manage somehow till father returned. If worse came to worst, she could borrow of Squire Scrantoun, though she felt she could not resort to that humiliation except in case of actual necessity.
Morton, too, was paid a liberal percentage on fishing-tackle, etc., so that among them all the wolf was kept decidedly at bay, and Sara felt every night like adding a special thanksgiving to her prayers, because she was not forced to ask a loan of Squire Scrantoun.
After this happy day came a few that were anxious enough to poor Sara; for the little hoard was getting fearfully low, and now, too, the provisions were nearly gone. "I'm afraid, Morton," she said one morning, "if we don't hear something from father this week, I'll have to borrow of Squire Scrantoun." Molly's nose went up. "I don't like him; he's a scowly man!
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