Free The Flowering Thorn by Margery Sharp Page B

admitted the shrew-mouse warily. “But I wouldn’t want to be ’ere at dinner-time, because I got my own lot to give it to. But I could leave it ready p’raps, and then come back afterwards to clear.”
    â€œWhat time would that be?” asked Lesley, with a lift of her eyebrows. One didn’t want her there at all hours!
    â€œOh, not more’n two o’clock or so,” said Mrs. Sprigg surprisingly. “My boy, ’e gets ’ome at ’alf-past twelve; and in the morning I could get ’ere just before eight.”
    â€œAnd your wages?”
    Behind the bright shrew-mouse eyes passed a flicker of speculation.
    â€œA shilling an hour, Miss Frewen, according to how long I work.”
    Lesley hesitated. In all her life she had never before been in the position of directly employing labour. Taxi-men, of course: but that was different. One hired taxis by the fraction of an hour, not for two or three hours a day; they did not cook one’s meals or handle one’s crockery. A question suggested itself.
    â€œWhen could you begin, Mrs. Sprigg? Could you stay now and wash up?”
    â€œI’ll just run back and get my apron,” said Mrs. Sprigg, rising to her feet; and with a slight shock of surprise Lesley realised that everything was settled. Already, indeed, the old woman looked remarkably at home: her glance travelled frankly round the room, but rather to recognise it, it seemed, than to discover.
    â€œYou’ve been here before, perhaps?” hazarded Lesley.
    â€œDeary me, yes!” said Mrs. Sprigg. “My cousin Annie died ’ere. What time will you want breakfast, Miss Frewen?”
    â€œHalf-past eight,” Lesley told her: and was about to give detailed instructions when they were interrupted by a loud galloping sound outside the window. It was young Patrick, mounted on his bean-pole: and with a ridiculous tremor Lesley took the plunge.
    â€œThis is Patrick Craigie, Mrs. Sprigg, who lives with me.”
    Just as Uncle Graham had done, Mrs. Sprigg glanced swiftly from Lesley’s black to Patrick’s flaming hair.
    â€œSturdy, ain’t ’e?” she said approvingly. “There’s nothing like the country for children. I s’pose that means porridge?”
    â€œPorridge or cereal, bread-and-butter, jam or honey, a glass of cold milk,” said Lesley expertly: and felt herself for the second time go up in the other’s estimation.
    â€œAnd tea for yourself, Miss, or will it be coffee?”
    â€œBlack coffee, a glass of orange juice and very thin toast—that’s all.”
    Mrs. Sprigg nodded intelligently.
    â€œHalf-past eight then, porridge and the usuals for Patrick, coffee ’n toast for yourself,” she recapitulated. “It don’t seem much, do it, to get through the morning? But there, I s’pose each stomach knows its best.” She gathered herself together and rose to go, opening the door on such a blaze of sun that Lesley too stepped out and accompanied her to the gate. On the way they were again crossed by Patrick, lusty on his hobby horse.
    â€œIt’s my belief, all men are villains at ’eart,” said Mrs. Sprigg.

CHAPTER TWO
    One spring morning about three weeks later an odd thing happened. In spite of the difference in their menus Lesley and her young charge generally finished breakfast about the same time: at which point Patrick disappeared into the orchard and Lesley pushed back her chair to continue looking at The Times. On this particular morning, however, and while she was perusing the third leader, her left and unoccupied hand absently reached out across the table and took a piece of Patrick’s bread-and-butter. With equal absence of mind, she then proceeded to eat it.
    The slice and the leader finishing together, Lesley shook out the paper and turned to Drama: in a few seconds the same thing happened again. The plateful had been a large one, the slices