Her voice was low, but there was a sparkle in it. The curious eyes seemed to hold her like a doll in the centre of a target, yet Marigold stuck to her ground, and the good people would have thought the something running in her blood was very, very bad, and the bad people would have misunderstood it too. “You must not let the High Priest hear you speak so. These dinners are his pet charity.” “Ah! and a very gracious charity too, sir,” and she clasped her hands in a certain mocking humility and looked up at him. “We who are very poor, only know how gracious.” “You enjoyed the roast beef and suet pudding?” “Indeed, I was very hungry. But the old man next to me would use his fork to the potatoes instead of a spoon, and the man with a wooden leg on the other side--oh! he was worse. He had a cold, and he has given it to me--I _feel_ he has.” And Marigold sneezed from sheer naughtiness, and everybody in the room looked up, and everybody smiled--and then the High Priest came forward with the stately walk that she could imitate so well. “My child, I wish to speak to you,” said he, and laid his hand solemnly upon her shoulder. This she had never been prepared for. In connection with herself she had always looked upon him as a man--and--and--here he was acting the priest. In her astonishment and silent laughter, she quite forgot to appreciate the condescension, yet with a miraculous suddenness liked him sincerely for his way of speaking. Acting, which was no acting, came as usual to her assistance. Never humblest, shyest beggar girl looked more sweet than she, as she glanced up at him. “I’ve brought your holiness the change back out of six loaves of bread. The children thank you very much for them.” “I said you were to keep the change. Why have you not brought the children here to-day?” “I thought only the grown-up people came to the dinner. I thought one had bread tickets for the children.” “Only the very young ones. Those over eight come here; they have a table to themselves.” “All mine are under eight.” “How many are there?” “We have--six. Five with the baby.” “And you--how old are you?” What indignities the poor must undergo! “I--I really don’t know how old I am. Mother lost the birth certificate, and father knows nothing at all--he never did.” Then the guest laughed, and the High Priest followed suit. “You mean you don’t intend to tell us?” said the former. “I mean I really don’t know.” “You are in an enviable position for a woman. Now, can you tell us your address?” She looked at the High Priest. He was certainly easier to deal with than his companion, but he also seemed to expect this information. “We live in a very poor part, your holiness. Father’s drinking has brought us to it. We were quite respectable at one time.”