They came to a pond by a farm-house. Clare had been observing with pity how wretched Tommy’s clothes were; but when he looked into the pond he saw that his own shabbiness was worse than Tommy’s downright miserableness. Nobody would leave either of them within reach of anything worth stealing! What he wore had been his Sunday suit, and it was not even worth brushing! “I’m ’orrid ’ungry,” said Tommy. “I ain’t swallered a plug this mornin’, ’xcep’ a lump o’ bread out o’ granny’s cupboard. That’s what I got my weltin’ for. It were a whole half-loaf, though--an’ none so dry!” Clare had eaten nothing, and had been up since five o’clock--at work all the time till the farmer struck him: he was quite as hungry as Tommy. What was to be done? Besides a pocket-handkerchief he had but one thing alienable. The very day she was taken ill, he had been in the store-room with his mother, and she, knowing the pleasure he took in the scent of brown Windsor-soap, had made him a present of a small cake. This he had kept in his pocket ever since, wrapt in a piece of rose-coloured paper, his one cherished possession: hunger deadening sorrow, the time was come to bid it farewell. His heart ached to part with it, but Tommy and he were so hungry! They went to the door of the house, and knocked--first Clare very gently, then Tommy with determination. It was opened by a matron who looked at them over the horizon of her chin. “Please, ma’am,” said Clare, “will you give us a piece of bread?--as large a piece, please, as you can spare; and I will give you this piece of brown Windsor-soap.” As he ended his speech, he took a farewell whiff of his favourite detergent. “Soap!” retorted the dame. “Who wants your soap! Where did you get it? Stole it, I don’t doubt! Show it here.” She took it in her hand, and held it to her nose. “Who gave it you?” “My mother,” answered Clare. “Where’s your mother?” Clare pointed upward. “Eh? Oh--hanged! I thought, so!” She threw the soap into the yard, and closed the door. Clare darted after his property, pounced upon it, and restored it lovingly to his pocket. As they were leaving the yard disconsolate, they saw a cart full of turnips. Tommy turned and made for it. “Don’t, Tommy,” cried Clare. “Why not? I’m hungry,” answered Tommy, “an’ you see it’s no use astin’!” He flew at the cart, but Clare caught and held him. “They ain’t ours, Tommy,” he said. “Then why don’t you take one?” retorted Tommy. “That’s why you shouldn’t.” “It’s why you should, for then it ’ud be yours.” “To take it wouldn’t make it ours, Tommy.” “Wouldn’t it, though? I believe when I’d eaten it, it would be mine--rather!” “No, it wouldn’t. Think of having in your stomach what wasn’t yours! No, you must pay for it. Perhaps they would take my soap for a turnip. I believe it’s worth two turnips.” He spied a man under a shed, ran to him, and made offer of the soap for a turnip apiece.