“Tell us what ‘B’ is Sam.”
“Shonna,” grunted Sam.
“Go on, there’s a duckie; an’ I’ll ma’ ’e a treacle puddin’.”
“Today?” asked S’r Ann eagerly.
“Go on, Sam, my duck,” persisted the mother.
“Tha’ ’as na got no treacle,” said Sam conclusively.
The needle was in the fire; the children stood about watching.
“Will you do it yourself?” I asked Emily.
“I!” she exclaimed, with wide eyes of astonishment, and she shook her head emphatically.
“Then I must.” I took out the needle, holding it in my handkerchief. I took her hand and examined the wound. But when she saw the hot glow of the needle, she snatched away her hand, and looked into my eyes, laughing in a half-hysterical fear and shame. I was very serious, very insistent. She yielded me her hand again, biting her lips in imagination of the pain, and looking at me. While my eyes were looking into hers she had courage; when I was forced to pay attention to my cauterising, she glanced down, and with a sharp “Ah!” ending in a little laugh, she put her hands behind her, and looked again up at me with wide brown eyes, all quivering with apprehension, and a little shame, and a laughter that held much pleading.
One of the children began to cry.
“It is no good,” said I, throwing the fast cooling needle on to the hearth.
I gave the girls all the pennies I had—then I of-
