“Haven’t you got any mother?”

“No, ma’am, and father is dead too.  He died when I was too little to remember, and mother earned her living by making baskets, and when I was big enough she taught me.”

“How long ago did your mother die?” asked Mrs. Perry, more gently.

“Two years, ma’am, and when she died Aunt Emma and Uncle Tom said I was to go and live with them.  They said mother had said I was to.”

“Um!  Did your mother think so much of them, then?”

“No, ma’am.  They was always too rough for mother, they drinks a lot, and—­and swears terrible, and they’m always fighting.”

“I wonder at your mother leaving you to such people to be took care of.”

“I don’t believe mother ever did,” said Huldah, “she never told me so, anyway,” and she burst into bitter sobs; “but there wasn’t anybody else there, and they told the parish orf’cer that I was their little girl, and then they went away as fast as they could, and took me with them.”

“Are they kind to you?”

“They beat me—­they’re always beating me, or Dick, or Charlie,—­ Charlie is the old horse that draws the van,—­and I’d sooner be beaten myself than see them being knocked about.  We don’t ever get enough to eat, but that isn’t so bad as the beatings.”

“Poor child!  You both look as if you had never had enough to eat in your lives.  Did they make baskets too?”

“No, ma’am, they can’t.  They make clothes-pegs, and they sell brushes and mats, but my baskets brought them in as much as a pound a week sometimes, and oh!” and she gasped at the thought, “Uncle Tom will be angry, when he finds I don’t come back!” and her eyes were full of terror as she thought of his passion.

Mrs. Perry disappeared into the little scullery behind the kitchen, and opened the door of the safe where she kept her scanty store of food.  There was very little in it but a ham-bone, a few eggs, a loaf of bread, and a tiny bit of butter.  The bone she had, earlier in the day, decided would make her some pea-soup for to-morrow’s dinner, but she thought of poor Dick and his hollow sides, and came to the conclusion that her soup would taste just as good without the bone; and Dick, when he really grasped the fact that the whole of the big bone was really meant for him, soon showed her that no ham-bone in the world had ever given more complete satisfaction.

“Could you eat an egg?”

Huldah stared blankly at her hostess.  She could not at first realise that the question was meant for her.  “An egg!  Me!  Oh, yes, ma’am, but I don’t want anything so—­so good as that.”  She could have eaten anything, no matter how plain, or poor, or unappetizing.  But an egg!  One of the greatest luxuries she had ever tasted.  “A bit of dry bread will be plenty good enough.  Eggs cost a lot, and—­and—­”

“My hens lay eggs for me in plenty.  I don’t ever have to buy one,” said the old woman, proudly.  “I’ve got some fine hens.”