"My Leah is a saint," he said. "If effra'boddy was so good as her, the
Messiah would come."
Nance dreamed of buttons that night, and by the next evening her ambition
to become a wage-earner had died completely.
But a family conclave at the supper table revealed such a crisis in the
family finances that she decided to keep on at the Lavinskis' for another
week. Uncle Jed was laid up with the rheumatism, and Mr. Snawdor's entire
stock in trade had been put in a wheelbarrow and dumped into the street,
and a strange sign already replaced his old one of "Bungs and Fawcetts."
Things seemed in such a bad way that Nance had about decided to lay the
matter before Mrs. Purdy, when Dan brought the disconcerting news that
Mrs. Purdy had taken her brother south for the rest of the winter, and
that there would be no more visits to the little house in Butternut Lane.
So Nance, not knowing anything better to do, continued to sit night
after night on her stool behind the hot stove, sewing on buttons.
Thirty-six buttons meant four cents, four cents meant a loaf of bread--a
stale loaf, that is.
"Your little fingers vill git ofer bein' sore," Mrs. Lavinski assured
her. "I gif you alum water to put on 'em. Dat makes 'em hard."
They not only became hard; they became quick and accurate, and Nance got
used to the heat and the smell, and she almost got used to the backache.
It was sitting still and being silent that hurt her more than anything
else. Mr.
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