She stopped for lack of breath, and Liz spoke quietly: 

“It’s all right, Mother Mawks,” she said, with an attempt at a smile; “here’s your shilling, here’s the four pennies for the gin.  I don’t owe you anything for the child now.”  She stopped and hesitated, looking down tenderly at the frail creature in her arms; then added, almost pleadingly, “It’s asleep now.  May I take it with me to-night?”

Mother Mawks, who had been testing the coins Liz had given her by biting them ferociously with her large yellow teeth, broke into a loud laugh.

“Take it with yer!  I like that!  Wot imperence!  Take it with yer!” Then, with her huge red arms akimbo, she added, with a grin, “Tell yer wot, if yer likes to pay me ’arf a crown, yer can ‘ave it to cuddle, an’ welcome!”

Another shout of approving merriment burst from the drink-sodden spectators of the little scene, and the girl crouched on the ground removed her encircling hands from her knees to clap them loudly, as she exclaimed: 

“Well done, Mother Mawks!  One doesn’t let out kids at night for nothing!  ’T ought to be more expensive than daytime!”

The face of Liz had grown white and rigid.

“You know I can’t give you that money,” she said, slowly.  “I have not tasted bit or drop all day.  I must live, though it doesn’t seem worth while.  The child”—­and her voice softened involuntarily—­“is fast asleep; it’s a pity to wake it, that’s all.  It will cry and fret all night, and—­and I will make it warm and comfortable if you’d let me.”  She raised her eyes hopefully and anxiously.  “Will you?”

Mother Mawks was evidently a lady of an excitable disposition.  The simple request seemed to drive her nearly frantic.  She raised her voice to an absolute scream, thrusting her dirty hands through her still dirtier hair as the proper accompanying gesture to her vituperative oratory.

“Will I!  Will I!” she screeched.  “Will I let out my hown babby for the night for nuthin’?  Will I?  No, I won’t!  I’ll see yer blowed into the middle of next week fust!  Lor’ ‘a’ mussey! ’ow ‘igh an’ mighty we are gittin’, to be sure!  The babby’ll be quiet with you, Miss Liz, will it, hindeed!  An’ it will cry an’ fret with its hown mother, will it, hindeed!” And at every sentence she approached Liz more nearly, increasing in fury as she advanced.  “Yer low hussy!  D’ye think I’d let ye ’ave my babby for a hour unless yer paid for ’it?  As it is, yer pays far too little.  I’m an honest woman as works for my livin’ an’ wot drinks reasonable, better than you by a long sight, with yer stuck-up airs!  A pretty drab you are!  Gi’ me the babby; ye ’a’n’t no business to keep it a minit longer.”  And she made a grab at Liz’s sheltering shawl.

“Oh, don’t hurt it!” pleaded Liz, tremblingly.  “Such a little thing—­don’t hurt it!”

Mother Mawks stared so wildly that her blood-shot eyes seemed protruding from her head.