Then, of course, Jinny was obliged to peel the potato for Joe, and to cut it up for him; she would in fact have liked to feed him, had not a timely suggestion as to the advisability of continuing her own dinner recalled her attention to that very important matter. When the pudding came, she insisted on measuring plates to make quite sure that Joe was not defrauding himself of any portion of his just share; and was altogether so judicious and patronising, not to say motherly, that the old man partook of the repast to an accompaniment of perpetual chuckles. His delight was greatest, perhaps, when Jinny insisted on “siding” the dinner things at the conclusion of the meal, a task which she accomplished with most business-like dexterity. One by one she carried away dishes and plates—having first taken the precaution of setting the buttery door ajar—then she swept up the floor, and folded the cloth, in a somewhat lop-sided manner it must be owned, but with an air which left no doubt of her own consciousness of efficiency. “I’ll wash up by and by,” she remarked, as she returned to Joe’s side. “Eh, we’ll not ax thee to do that,” replied he. “Thou art a wonderful little lass. Thou art, for sure! And nobbut six! Thou’s a gradely headpiece under they curls o’ thine.” “My curls is all comin’ off,” remarked Jinny, with a little toss of the head that carried them. “What!” cried Joe, almost jumping from his chair. “Mother’s goin’ to cut them all off,” explained the child. “They take such a time brushin’ out—and sometimes hoo pulls ’em an’ hoo’s vexed when I cry. So hoo says, Off they must come. Daddy axed hoo to leave ’em till Christmas, but I ’spect hoo’ll have ’em off to-morrow.” “Well, that beats all!” cried Joe, as profoundly moved with indignation as though the decree had gone forth that Jinny must lose her head instead of her hair. “I should think that any woman as is a woman, or for the matter o’ that, anybody wi’ a heart in their breast, ought to be glad and proud to comb out they curls. For the matter o’ that I’d be willin’ to comb ’em out mysel’, if that’s all the trouble. Coom over here of a mornin’, my wench, with thy brush an’ comb, and I’ll see to you.” “Will ye, Mr Makin?” said Jinny, clapping her hands. “Eh, ye are good! Didn’t I say ye was good? The goodest mon—I—ever—did—see,” she added with emphasis. “I wish I was your little lass,” she remarked, after a pause. “Do ye?” returned Joe, setting aside the pipe which he had been about to fill, and drawing her towards him. “Ye’d never like to live wi’ an owd mon same as me,” he pursued in a hesitating tone. “Nay, of course, ye wouldn’t; ye’d be awful dull.” Jinny shook her head till her curls made a yellow nimbus. “I wouldn’t!” she cried with emphasis. “I’d love to live here wi’ you, Mr Makin. You’d be my daddy then, wouldn’t ye? Were you ever a daddy, Mr Makin?”