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

selecting tins of peaches and pears and smaller ones of asparagus tips for the little savories that Darnay so enjoyed. “He used to get big money, but he’s given that up now. He’s started painting in a new way and he may not get so much.”
    â€œThat’s a queer setout,” declared her grandfather.
    â€œWhat’s queer about it?”
    â€œSupposing I was to give up this shop that pays me well, and start trying to run a different kind of business—would ye say that was not a queer thing to do?”
    â€œIt’s different altogether. You’re contented with the shop—it’s not only the money, is it?”
    â€œNo, it’s not only the money,” he agreed.
    There was silence for a minute or two, and then Sue said, “Bacon, Grandfather,” and added defiantly, “The best Wiltshire, please,” for whether Darnay could pay for it or not he should have the very best.
    â€œPick it yerself, then,” Mr. Bulloch invited her with a twinkle in his eye.
    Sue considered the sides of bacon with the utmost gravity. “I’ll take three pounds of this,” she said at last, “and I’ll slice it myself if you’ll put it on the machine for me—he likes it thin.”
    â€œNever!” exclaimed Mr. Bulloch in mock surprise. “He likes the best Wiltshire, and he likes it cut thin! Ye’ll be telling me he likes a couple of the best new-laid eggs with it next.”
    â€œI’m getting my eggs from a farm near,” she told him.
    â€œMine’ll not be fresh enough for him, I suppose!” said Mr. Bulloch humbly.
    Sue had to laugh then—she couldn’t help it—and her grandfather joined in with such a lusty roar that Mrs. Bulloch heard it in the sitting room and came down to ask what the joke was.
    â€œMr. Darnay likes the best Wiltshire, cut thin,” declared Mr. Bulloch, between his gusts of laughter.
    â€œWell, and what of it?” said his wife, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “What’s to laugh at in that, Thomas? It’s the way ye like it yerself.”
    By this time the pile of groceries on the counter had grown to considerable proportions—bags of cereals, tins of fruit, bacon, butter, sugar, and cheese were but a few of the treasures that Sue had culled from her grandfather’s stock.
    â€œI’m thinking it’ll have to go in a crate,” he said, looking at the pile doubtfully, “or maybe Alec Anderson would take it out to ye for an obligement.”
    â€œYou’ll send it out early with your own van,” said Sue firmly. “The butcher doesn’t come till late. What’s the van for if you can’t send out an order in it—a big order like that.”
    â€œDid ye ever hear the like!” cried Mr. Bulloch with feigned dismay. “I’ve to send the van four miles with one order, and gas at one and eight the gallon!!”
    â€œIt’s one and sevenpence halfpenny,” amended Sue, who happened to be in possession of this useful piece of information owing to a similar but far more heated argument with her father’s van man.
    Supper was a cheerful meal, for Sue was in excellent spirits and kept her grandparents amused with lively accounts of her doings at the mill. She told them of her struggles with the kitchen range and how she was sure that it harbored an imp of darkness in its vast and gloomy interior, and she told them about her walks on the moors and how the birds sang in the early morning. In fact, the Bullochs had never heard her talk so much, and it was only afterward, when she had gone, that they discovered how little she had told them.
    â€œIt’s queer, her not going along to Number Three,” Mrs. Bulloch said thoughtfully. “Will and Grace’ll not be best pleased that she came here and never went to them.”
    â€œShe hadn’t time,” Mr. Bulloch replied as he took his beloved cello from