But there was a certain fair spot of delicate honor in Glory's nature that would not let her bring Bubby and Baby in any apparent hope of what they might get, gratuitously, into their mouths. She laid it down, a rule, with Master Herbert, that he was not to go to the apple stand with her unless he had first put by a penny for a purchase. And so unflinchingly she adhered to this determination, that sometimes weeks went by--hard, weary weeks, without a bit of pleasantness for her; weeks of sore pining for a morsel of heart food--before she was free of her own conscience to go and take it. Bridget told stories to Herbert--strange, nonsensical fables, to be sure--stuff that many an overwise mother, bringing up her children by hard rule and theory, might have utterly forbidden as harmful trash--yet that never put an evil into his heart, nor crowded, I dare to say, a better thought out of his brain. Glory liked the stories as well, almost, as the child. One moral always ran through them all. Troubles always, somehow, came to an end; good creatures and children got safe out of them all, and lived happy ever after; and the fierce, and cunning, and bad--the wolves, and foxes, and witches--trapped themselves in their own wickedness, and came to deplorable ends. "Tell us about the little red hen," said Herbert, paying his money, and munching his candy. "An' thin ye'll trundle yer hoop out to the big tree, an' lave Glory an' me our lane for a minute?" "Faith, an' I will that," said the boy--aping, ambitiously, the racy Irish accent.