Cook is taken flat aback by so sudden a revelation of the pharisaism
     of which she has not been conscious.

Cook.  Well!  You are sharp! [Opening another dresser drawer] Here’s the vinegar!  And here’s the sweets, and [rather anxiously] you mustn’t eat them.

Faith.  I wasn’t in for theft.

Cook. [Shocked at such rudimentary exposure of her natural misgivings]
No, no!  But girls have appetites.

Faith.  They didn’t get much chance where I’ve been.

Cook.  Ah!  You must tell me all about it.  Did you have adventures?

Faith.  There isn’t such a thing in a prison.

Cook.  You don’t say!  Why, in the books they’re escapin’ all the time. 
But books is books; I’ve always said so.  How were the men?

Faith.  Never saw a man—­only a chaplain.

Cook.  Dear, dear!  They must be quite fresh to you, then!  How long was it?

Faith.  Two years.

Cook.  And never a day out?  What did you do all the time?  Did they learn you anything?

Faith.  Weaving.  That’s why I hate it.

Cook.  Tell me about your poor little baby.  I’m sure you meant it for the best.

Faith. [Sardonically] Yes; I was afraid they’d make it a ward in
Chancery.

Cook.  Oh! dear—­what things do come into your head!  Why!  No one can take a baby from its mother.

Faith.  Except the Law.

Cook.  Tt!  Tt!  Well!  Here’s the pickled onions.  Miss Mary loves ’em! 
Now then, let me see you lay the cloth.

     She takes a tablecloth out, hands it to faith, and while the girl
     begins to unfold the cloth she crosses to the service shutter.

And here’s where we pass the dishes through into the pantry.

     The door is opened, and Mrs March’s voice says:  “Cook—­a minute!”

[Preparing to go] Salt cellars one at each corner—­four, and the peppers. [From the door] Now the decanters.  Oh! you’ll soon get on. [Mrs March “Cook!”] Yes, ma’am.

     She goes.  Faith, left alone, stands motionless, biting her pretty
     lip, her eyes mutinous.  Hearing footsteps, she looks up.  Mr Bly,
     with his pail and cloths, appears outside.

Bly. [Preparing to work, while faith prepares to set the salt cellars] So you’ve got it!  You never know your luck.  Up to-day and down to-morrow.  I’ll ’ave a glass over this to-night.  What d’you get?

Faith.  Thirty.

Bly.  It’s not the market price, still, you’re not the market article.  Now, put a good heart into it and get to know your job; you’ll find Cook full o’ philosophy if you treat her right—­she can make a dumplin’ with anybody.  But look ’ere; you confine yourself to the ladies!