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"Ten pounds eleven," said Paul irritably. He dreaded what was coming. "And he gives me a scrattlin' twenty-five, an' his club this week! But I know him. He thinks because YOU'RE earning he needn't keep the house any longer. No, all he has to do with his money is to guttle it. But I'll show him!" "Oh, mother, don't!" cried Paul. "Don't what, I should like to know?" she exclaimed.
"In this flamin', scrattlin' place you may count yerself lucky if you can give your things away," he growled. "Yes; there are bad times, and good," said Mrs. Morel. But she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends. She dare now finger his pots. So she was happy. Paul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming.
"But how shall I find them," she asked, "if the hens hide them away so carefully?" "Oh, you'll hear 'em scrattlin' round!" replied the farmer. "They're gret fools, hens are, greter than folks, as a rule; an' that is sayin' a good deal." They crossed the great sunny barn-yard, and paused at the barn-door, while Hilda looked in with delight.
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