The Baker’s Daughter by D. E. Stevenson Page A

didn’t accept it there was no certainty of being able to drag Sue away.
    â€œWell, it’s good of ye, Mr. Darnay,” said Bulloch at last. “The truth is I’m at a loss what to say. I’m thinking yon picture of Sue is valuable whether it’s a study or a portrait or whatever ye call it. Mrs. Bulloch—well—I’ll see what she says. I’m sure she’ll think the same as me.”
    â€œShe won’t if you put it to her the right way,” Darnay assured him.
    And that, as Bulloch found, was exactly the trouble, for no matter how carefully he explained the whole thing to Susan—and as a matter of fact he knew all the time that he was explaining it far too much and far too carefully—he could see that Susan thought he had been “won over” by Mr. Darnay: fed on the fat of the land, cosseted with good talk, and bribed with the picture he had so admired.
    â€œA man need not be good for all he can quote the Scriptures,” said Mrs. Bulloch at last with a sigh. “Look at David himself! I’d not have trusted Sue alone in a house with David five minutes.”
    There was nothing more to be said.

Chapter Twelve
    Darnay began to appreciate his housekeeper more highly now that there seemed a chance of losing her—and he began to realize how comfortable he was. He was comfortable with Miss Bun not only in the sense of being well fed and well looked after, but also in mind and spirit. She was exactly the sort of person he needed, a parcel of complements to his own nature. He needed her practical common sense, for it made him feel safely anchored to the earth, and he needed her admiration that, though perfectly obvious, was never merely silly. She had a flavor all her own, and Darnay knew that he would never find anybody else who suited him so well. It never crossed his mind that the girl’s reputation might suffer through being alone with him in the house. His mind was keen and flexible, but he had the egotism of the peculiarly gifted, and the very brilliance of his vision blinded him to the small worldly problems of his neighbors.
    Sue could have eased his mind if she had known what was troubling him, for she had not the slightest intention of leaving Tog’s Mill. It was good for her to be here and she had never been so happy since her mother died. Looking back at her childhood, Sue saw it as a mosaic of small unrelated pictures, or of pictures related only by one figure—her mother’s—which could be seen in them all. Herself, the small Sue, seemed different in each picture—sometimes bold, sometimes shy, sometimes happy. She scarcely knew which of the pictures were real memories and which were only stories kept green by her mother, for Mary had been so proud of her small daughter that she loved to tell stories about Sue’s cleverness. Sue had worshipped her mother—there was nobody like her, there never could be. Mary had made life seem like a song, an old familiar song, a safe lullaby. She had danced through life, but her very lightheartedness had made life safe. When Mary died the unthinkable had happened and life became dangerous and grim. It became grim in reality, for Will Pringle was strange and moody after the death of his wife; sometimes he was silent for days on end and, at other times, sarcastic and cynical. Sue, struggling with the house—which in her mother’s lifetime seemed to run itself—had been an easy victim, and even when she had gained the mastery of housekeeping, she was not safe from his caustic tongue.
    All that was changed now, and Sue had come out of the shadow into warm sunshine. Darnay, though he might ignore her when entranced with his work, was as frank and open as the day and had nothing but praise for his housekeeper.
    â€œYou do too much,” he told her. “Honestly, you do. Who minds a little dust in the corners! The house is old and far too big—let the dust lie