Free The Baker’s Daughter by D. E. Stevenson

said Mr. Bulloch slowly. “It’s a queer sort of thing altogether.”
    â€œIt’s lonely for ye,” Mrs. Bulloch declared.
    â€œI like it,” she told them, “and how could I come away and leave Mr. Darnay to do for himself? He paints all day and every day—who’s going to do for him if I come home?”
    â€œIt’s a queer sort of thing,” her grandfather repeated, frowning. “I’m not liking it at all for ye, Sue. I’m thinking ye should tell Mr. Darnay ye’re leaving and let him get some other body to do for him—an older person.”
    Sue was surprised at the strength of her objection to this suggestion—she felt quite angry with her grandfather—and yet she had known that some such suggestion would be made. She was wise enough, however, to hide her feelings, for if they thought she was too anxious to remain at Tog’s Mill they would be all the more determined on tearing her away.
    â€œWe’ll see,” said Sue equably. “Maybe later on.”
    The Bullochs were not deceived by this diplomatic reply, for they knew their granddaughter pretty well, and nobody could know Sue without being aware of her stubbornness and independence, but they could do nothing more at the moment, so they held their peace.
    â€œI’m worried about Sandy,” said Sue, after a moment’s silence.
    â€œWhat’s Sandy been up to?” inquired his grandmother.
    â€œI wish he had been up to something,” Sue declared. “He’s never up to anything. He just lets things slide.”
    â€œWill tells me he’s to go into the bakery,” said Mr. Bulloch. “Is that right, Sue?”
    â€œHe doesn’t want to,” she replied. She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to say any more about it and finally decided on the latter course. She had discussed the matter very fully with Mr. Darnay, and he had pointed out that nobody could help Sandy unless he would help himself. It was Sandy’s own nature that was the real problem.
    â€œHe should tell his father what he wants to do,” declared Mrs. Bulloch sensibly, and so saying she rose and began her preparations for supper.
    â€œGrandfather,” said Sue, “will you come down to the shop? I’m wanting some things to take back with me.”
    Mr. Bulloch laughed. “Ye are, are ye? Maybe ye’ve forgotten the time. The shop’s been shut two hours, Miss Pringle, I’d have ye know.”
    â€œIt’ll be all the quieter for me, and I’ll see what I want all the better,” Sue told him with a twinkle in her eye. “If you’re feeling tired you can give me the key and I’ll take what I want myself.”
    â€œSave us all!” cried her grandfather in mock alarm.
    He heaved himself out of his chair and led the way down the narrow corkscrew stair that descended from the house to the warehouse, turning on the lights as he went, so that when they reached the ground floor the whole place was brilliantly illuminated. Sue was quite dazzled by the glare after the soft glow of lamps to which she had become accustomed.
    â€œIt’s bright,” she exclaimed, looking around her and blinking a little.
    â€œAye, it’s bright,” agreed Mr. Bulloch with pride. He loved his shop, and he loved to see it like this—swept and garnished, full of delectable goods from every country in the world. There was romance in this business of his (though he would never have admitted it, for he liked to pretend that he was a hardheaded businessman). All those cases, packed by white men and yellow men, brown men and black men, consigned to him from the uttermost parts of the earth, were unpacked by his own staff in his own warehouse and displayed to the good folk of Beilford on his ample shelves—was that not romance? The mere names of the goods he sold were like a song in his heart and made little colored pictures in his mind.