"Don't worry; how can I get on with my work if you do? It's father's penny, for his supper beer; he put it there before he went out, so that he couldn't spend it till he came home." Aside she said, with a sidelong look of pity at Prue, "I daren't touch it!" "I'm so 'ungry, mother!" pleaded Prue, plucking her mother's gown. "My inside's grinding away like one o'clock." Mrs. Flower was seized with a fit of irresolution, and she muttered, "If I look sharp, I shall be back with the washing money before he comes in." Stepping quickly to the fireplace, she took the penny from the mantel, and thrust it into Prue's hand. "There; go and get a penn'orth of peas-pudding." "Oh, mother, mother!" cried Little Prue joyfully, and was running out, when the door was blocked by the form of her father, who had returned sooner than he was expected. Mr. Flower was slightly intoxicated--his normal state. However much he drank, he never got beyond a certain stage of drunkenness; by reason, probably, of his being so thoroughly seasoned. "Hallo, hallo!" he cried, grasping his little girl by the shoulder. "Is the house on fire? Where are _you_ off to in such a hurry?" "Nowhere, father," replied Prue, slipping her hand with the penny in it behind her back. "Nowhere, eh? You're in a precious pelt to get there. What have you got in your hand?" "Nothink, father!" "Nothink, father!" he mocked, eyeing Prue with something more than suspicion. "No, father. Wish I may die if I 'ave!" Without more ado, Mr. Flower seized the little hand and, wresting the tightly-clenched fingers open, extracted the penny. Looking toward the mantelshelf, he said: "Stealing my money, eh, you young rat? Who learnt you to tell lies?" "You did!" replied Mrs. Flower, stepping between them. She had finished her washing, and was putting it together while this scene was proceeding. "You did, you drunken vagabond!" "You shut up! As for you," he said, throwing Prue violently on the bed; "you stop where you are, or I'll break every bone in your body!" "Lay a finger on her," cried Mrs. Flower fiercely, "and I'll throw the iron at your head! Don't mind him, Prue; I'll soon be back." "Ah, you'd better!" said Mr. Flower, with a brutal laugh at his wife, who was looking at him in anger. "What are you staring at?" "At you." "Well, and what do you make of me?" "What I've made of you ever since the day I married you." "For better or worse, eh?" "For worse, every minute of my life," she retorted. "I wonder why the Lord allows some people to live." "Here, that's enough of your mag, with your Lord and your Lord! What's your Lord done for me? Off you go, now!" But Mrs. Flower was not so easily disposed of. "Have you brought home any money?" she asked. "Money! How should I get money?" "Why work for it, like other men, you----" She repressed herself, and, with a flaming face, arranged the clothes she had washed.