"Well, he has--so there." "Who?" "It was a man who stole a ham from the shop at their home. He's been promoted since then, so he must be good. He buys a paper all about murders and things and gives it to Bessie; they're better than the tracts she used to get for me from that chapelly aunt of hers. Those were good stories, but not so good as Bill's, and his haven't that funny writing that the Bible parts are put in; but that's useful, because you know you needn't read it." "It's called italics." "Oh! Why?" "_I_ don't know. I wish you'd go to sleep. It's ages till breakfast." That meal was supposed to be at nine o'clock on Sunday mornings; but Bessie had learnt the folly of preparing it at that hour for the master and mistress of the house, so she lay long in bed, knowing that if the children grew impatient they would raid the larder, and just before the clock struck nine she would hurry down the stairs in her loose felt slippers. At half-past nine Edward Webb would appear, and read yesterday's newspaper until Nancy, lazy and smiling, in her trailing dressing-gown, entered the breakfast-room. "Oh, did you wait for me?" she would say, and drop into her place behind the teacups. No one went to church, but for an hour before dinner Edward Webb would take his little daughters for a walk, while Nancy, seated in her rocking-chair, would read her endless novels. Following the indolence of her body, which was the result of more ill-health than anyone but herself suspected, her mind had gradually refused to exercise its natural, homely criticism in literature, and she read greedily, almost mechanically, any novel, not too serious, she could procure. Her method at the circulating library was to work methodically along the shelves, and the attendant, without question, would put the next book into her hands. Often she did not know its name, sometimes she could not have retold the tale. Reading and rocking had become twin habits which were alike soothing and effortless. Meanwhile the mending-basket would be filled to overflowing, and her husband would complain that he could not find a mended pair of socks. Then she would flush all over her rueful face, and, still rocking, she would darn rhythmically until there was no more daylight, when, murmuring something about trying her eyes with dark work, she would pick up her book. But once Theresa, with her sharp nose in the basket and a keen eye for other people's faults, drew forth in triumph a light-coloured garment. "But here's a woolly vest of father's!" she cried. "You can darn that!" "Oh, can I, Miss Interference? Perhaps you would like to do it yourself. Yes, you shall. It's time you learnt. Get the stool and sit beside me."