“Sick, is she too?” said Joanna.

“Sick with rheumatism, so that she did not like to stir.”

“I guess I must go take a look at her; but maybe she mightn’t let me.  Well, Miss Daisy, the way will be for you to tell me what she wants, if you can find out.  She must have neighbours, though, that take care of her.”

“We are her neighbours,” said Daisy.

Joanna looked, a look of great complacency and some wonder, at the child; and packed forthwith into Daisy’s basket the half of a cold chicken and a broken peach pie.  A bottle of milk Daisy particularly desired, and a little butter; and she set off at last, happier than a queen—­Esther or any other—­to go to Molly with her supplies.

She found not much improvement in the state of affairs.  Molly was gathered up on her hearth near the stove, in which she had made a fire; but it did not appear, for all that Daisy could see, that anything else had been done or any breakfast eaten that morning.  The cripple seemed to be in a down-hearted and hopeless state of mind; and no great wonder.

“Molly, would you like another cup of tea?” said her little friend.

“Yes, it’s in there.  You fix it,”—­said the poor woman, pointing as before to the cupboard, and evidently comforted by Daisy’s presence and proposal.  Daisy could hear it in the tone of her voice.  So, greatly pleased herself, Daisy went to work in Molly’s house just as if she was at home.  She fetched water in the kettle again and made up the fire.  While that was getting ready, she set the table for breakfast.  The only table that Molly could use was a piece of board nailed on a chair.  On this Daisy put her plate and cup and saucer, and with secret glee arranged the cold chicken and loaf of bread.  For the cupboard, as she saw, was as empty as she had found it two days before.  What Molly had lived on in the mean time was simply a mystery to Daisy.  To be sure, the end of cold pork was gone, the remains of the cake had disappeared, and nothing was left of the peaches but the stones.  The tea-kettle did not boil for a time; and Daisy looked uneasily at Molly’s cup and saucer and plate meanwhile.  They had not been washed, Daisy could not guess for how long; certainly no water had touched them since the tea of two nights ago, for the cake crumbs and peach stones told the tale.  Daisy looked at them with a great feeling of discomfort.  She could not bear to see them so; they ought to be washed; but Daisy disliked the idea of touching them for that purpose more than I can make you understand.  In all matters of nicety and cleanliness Daisy was notional; nothing suited her but the most fastidious particularity.  It had been a trial to her to bring those unwashed things from the cupboard.  Now she sat and looked at them; uneasily debating what she should do.  It was not comfortable, that Molly should take her breakfast off them as they were; and Molly was miserable herself and would do nothing to mend matters.  And then—­“Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you,”—­As soon as that came fairly into Daisy’s head, she knew what she ought to be about.  Not without an inward sigh, she gathered up the pieces again.