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“When I do my dishes, Mar, can I work in the garding, too?” inquired Betty. “Well, Miss Smith, are you alone here?” Mrs. Wopp was an incurable optimist, although the citadel of her optimism was being assailed. Turning her wrathful gaze from Moses, her eye lighted on the soiled pink hat and antimacassar still worn by Job. She burst into a hearty laugh and turned to Betty..
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“It was all splendid; and, Billy, I never dreamed it was in you! Sister’s operetta would have been a failure if it hadn’t been for you.” “Yes; he’d lick him too, if Flash wasn’t Tom’s body-guard.” Out of the tail of her eye Betty noted this little touch of sentiment and was much impressed. By this time Mr. Wopp was bearing a length of pipe into the yard. The parlor looked like a morgue with its inanimate objects lying bidden under sheets and cloths of varying degrees of past usefulness. Through a hole of one sheet could be seen the listless towzled head of Hannah, her faded wax countenance betraying the need of a tonic..
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