"It's bi'lin', —" said Molly, as soon as she entered.
So the little kettle was. Daisy made tea, and prepared Molly's
table with a little piece of butter and the bottle of milk.
And no little girl making an entertainment for herself with
tiny china cups and tea-set, ever had such satisfaction in it.
Twenty dinners at home could not have given Daisy so much
pleasure, as she had now to see the poor cripple look at her
unwonted luxuries, and then to see her taste them. Yet Molly
said almost nothing; but the grunt of new expression with
which she set down the bottle of milk the first time, went all
through and through Daisy's heart with delight. Molly drank
tea and spread her bread with butter, and Daisy noticed her
turning over her slice of bread to examine the texture of it;
and a quieter, soothed, less miserable look, spread itself
over her wrinkled features. They were not wrinkled with age;
yet it was a lined and seamed face generally, from the working
of unhappy and morose feelings.
"Ain't it good! —" was Molly's single word of comment as she
finished her meal. Then she sat back and watched Daisy putting
all the things nicely away. She looked hard at her.
"What you fetch them things here for?" she broke out suddenly.
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