Nine

Bridget and Merle walked home.

“Merle,” said her mother. “You have been naughty.”

Merle had been waiting for this.

“I know.”

“You lied to me and that is very bad.”

They stopped walking, Bridget looked down at her daughter.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” said Merle.

“Very well,” said Bridget. “We will say no more of it. Anyway, I knew you were lying to me, because I found apples in your bedroom.”

Merle blushed. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“But I want to say something else,” Bridget said. “What you did today was good, and very brave. You might have saved the old man’s life.”

“He’s called Eric Carlsson,” said Merle, suddenly bright again. “He’s a painter.”

Bridget nodded, and smiled.

“He certainly is that,” she said. “But listen, I think he needs our help, just for a while. So we’re going to make him a hot meal every day, and you can pick him a few apples every day, too. Would you like that?”

Merle nodded happily, her hair fell across her eyes.

“But we’ll do it together, and you must promise me you won’t go on your own again. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Merle. And she felt happier, because this time she knew she meant it.