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My Old Dutch
(Vitagraph)
By LULIETTE BRYANT
Mrs. Hawkins was a motherly, comfortable looking woman. She had no sharp angles and corners, physical nor mental. Her figure was round and ample ; her face was round and shining ; her black eyes were round and twinkling; in short, she was the personification of benevolent good nature.
It was small wonder, then, that the little shop which displayed over its door the gaily lettered sign,
WM. HAWKINS, GREENGROCER
was popular. It was situated in a modest little street, in one of the poorer sections of London, but it was clean and shining within and without, and a friendly word and smile went with every ha'penny's worth of potatoes and greens which the smiling mistress of the shop measured out.
This particular afternoon was an unusually busy one. It was Saturday, and every thrifty housewife was laying in a joint and a supply of vegetables for the next day's dinner. Between measuring out portions of vegetables from the counter on the sidewalk, hurrying in and out of the shop for fresh supplies, exchanging neighborly gossip with customers, and making numerous inquiries about Mollie's whooping-cough, Johnnie's measles or the old man's rheumatism, Mrs. Hawkins' round face became flushed like a peony, and her breath was uncomfortably short. She gave a sigh of relief when a vegetable cart, drawn by a fat donkey, came up, and her husband climbed down from the seat, saluting her with a hearty kiss !
''Hello, old girl! How's business?" he inquired; "I'm all sold out."
33
Mr. Hawkins was the rough, sturdy type of Briton, with that air of wellfed peace and contentment seen only in men whose wives are round and good-natured.
Mrs. Hawkins beamed as she peeped into the empty cart and glanced back at her empty barrels and boxes.
"It's been a fine day for trade," she declared, "but I'll warrant you're tired and hungry. I'll put the kettle on and have tea ready as soon as ever you've put Ned up."
"Do you know, old girl," said Hawkins, as he sat by the hearth in their cozy kitchen, disposing of unlimited quantities of bread and butter and herrings, washed down with innumerable cups of tea, "if business keeps up so good as this for another year, we'll be able to retire and buy the little cottage."
The round, black eyes danced happily. It had been the dream of their forty years of wedded life — that cottage in the country. It was to have roses over the door, a neat little garden with a green hedge, a real Jersey cow, and chickens.
"Won't it be fine!" she exclaimed, but her face fell as she glanced toward a closed door at the back of the room.
"I wish every one had good fortune," she sighed.
"What's the matter?" asked Hawkins, anxiously. "Hasn't the lodger any luck yet?"
"Not one picture sold since he came here, four months ago. He pays his rent regular, but I know his money is about gone, and he looks so sick and discouraged. I'd gladly give him a meal now and then, but he's that proud he won't accept a thing. There he comes now, Hawkins; ask him to have a cup of tea with you."
Clive Huntley, the lodger, certainly