"I'm sure I can't tell, dear."

"I'm going to make some bread!"

"Oh, that's it, is it?" asked Jem; "if I didn't guess as much when I saw you carryin' home that little red pan."

"But if it's heavy," said Meg dubiously, not referring to the pan, but to the bread, "shall you ever trust me with your flour again?"

He only smiled at that, and said,

"But you used to make it at home, for I'm sure as you told me so once."

"So I used, but not for a long time now; and you know there are a great many things that have to be right, or your bread won't be right."

"Well," said Jem, "let's get 'em all right, and then we shan't have no mishaps."

Meg laughed merrily.

"Jem, I must have some German yeast, and some nice good flour."

"I'll buy those for you as I pa.s.s along to my work, and tell them to send 'em in."

"But they'll have to come early," said Meg, "or it will not be a bit of use."

Jem promised to see to that; and then Meg propounded the question which had been burning on her lips all yesterday, only she could not get courage to bring it out.

"Jem," she began.

"Well, little woman?"

"Jem--should you very much mind if I were to earn something?"

Jem looked astonished, and then a cloud came over the brightness of his face. Did his little woman already begin to miss some of the things she had been accustomed to at the Hall?

"Why, dear?" he asked soberly.

"Because--at least--Jem--your mother said--if I helped her she should pay me!"

"And you did not like that?" asked Jem, looking relieved, but puzzled.

"I suppose I did not. I think I should like to help her for nothing--out of love to you, Jem, and by-and-by out of love to her."

"Yes, dear, so should I; but I see what mother feels. If she has more work than she can do alone, she would have to pay some one else, and would a deal rather the money went into your pocket. She would not be right to earn money at your expense."

"Not if we gave my time willingly?"

"No; but, Meg, you needn't do it unless you like it, my dear."

"I thought you would be sure to tell me to help your mother all I can,"

said Meg, almost ready to cry.

"An' so I should, sweetheart, while we had breath in our bodies, if she were ill or needed it. But it's different as it is. Jenny don't serve her well, that she don't."

"Who is 'Jenny'?" asked Meg.

"Jenny lives on our first floor. She has an old blind father, but she's out a deal. I fancy they have some sort of little income, for she don't work steady enough to keep him, and pay rent for those two rooms."

"And does she iron for mother?"

"Yes; and wash too sometimes. But mother has a knack or two with the washing, and likes to do most of that herself; she says folks don't get the things clean."

"Then you would like me to earn something if I could, Jem?" she asked.

"Well, dear," he answered very kindly, "if you was to ask me what I'd like, I'd say as I should _like_ you never to have a need to work all your life! But, Meg, I've looked at things a long time, and I've laid awake at night too thinkin' of them, and I've come to learn this. That our G.o.d don't mean us to be idle--none of us--and that it's _whatsoever_ our hands find to do, that we are to do with our might."

Meg's eyes lost their troubled look, and brightened up into their own serene sweetness under his earnest gaze.

"And so," he pursued, "the matter seems to me to stand like this: 'Is this what your dear little hand finds to do, or ain't it?'"

Meg sat thoughtfully silent for a few moments, and Jem got his hat. Then he came over to bid her good-bye.

"I won't forget the flour, little woman."

"And I won't forget what you've said, Jem. I think my hand does find it to do."

He kissed her tenderly.

"If we bring everythin' as we're doubtful of to whether He would like it----"

Meg nodded; and then he was gone, and she stood alone.

But in a moment his step was heard coming up, and his bright face peeped in.

"How much yeast did you say?"

"Oh, a halfpenny worth--if they would sell it--half an ounce, Jem; that will make up five pounds of flour well."

"All right."

This time she heard his step go to the bottom, and then she turned round and began to think of her day's work.

"I'll run up and ask mother first," she said; and locking her door, which they were obliged to do in a house with so many lodgers, she ran up-stairs.

In answer to her knock a rather far-off voice called "Come in."

She pushed open the door and entered, but Mrs. Seymour was nowhere to be seen. The bed-room door adjoining was ajar, but Meg hesitated to knock there, as she was sure her mother had said she had a lodger.

But in another moment a voice from within said, "Come in here, please; I can't bear to speak loud."