“And quite enough, too,” said Metzerott, watching how, as she spoke, Sally fed her niece with fragments of bread, dipped in the whiskey and water,—not a very palatable refreshment, one would suppose, yet Polly swallowed it eagerly. “Now, that’s enough liquor for the present, Polly Price,” said her aunt; “you can eat the rest of your bread dry, and be thankful you’ve got it. She’s a good girl, Mr. Metzerott, and a pretty girl, though I say so; and there’s them that has eyes to see it, and would keep her like a queen if she would listen to their wicked words.” Polly groaned, and hid her face upon her aunt’s thin shoulder. “It’s young Crushem, the contractor’s son,” continued Sally. “And when he spoke to her as I tell you, sir, Polly she comes home, and she says, says she, ‘It’s hard to put the bread from your mouth when you’re starving,’ she says. And then Susan there, she says, ‘It’s only putting off the starving a bit, Polly,’ says she. ‘Money made that way don’t never last long, and you’ll come to the garret and the crust at last,’ says she. ‘But he’s promised to settle money on me, so as I could take care of you both,’ says Polly. ‘Bless you, Polly Price,’ says I, ‘we’re used to it,’ says I; ‘we can stand it if you can,’ says I. And Polly, she says, kinder cryin’, ‘I thought I couldn’t, Aunt Sally,’ she says. ‘I told him I’d think over it, and I’d about made up my mind to say yes; but when that child downstairs looked at me with his solemn blue eyes, I knew I’d better starve than be a wicked girl,’ says Polly.” Metzerott had listened to this long story with a frown of sympathy contracting his rugged features. But at this point a hand pulled at his short working-jacket, and a sweet voice said, “Papa, don’t you think we’d better ’vide our dinner? There’s soup enough for a dozen, and don’t ever say my father can’t cook!” Metzerott caught the boy in his arms. “Do you hear the emperor?” he cried. “Louis Napoleon must be obeyed. Come down to dinner, all of you!” It was good to see the starving women eat, and Louis’ face bright with the joy of ’viding. Metzerott, as he watched them, knew not whether to be glad or sorrowful. That there should be no more starving under his roof he was quite determined, yet how to take upon himself the support of three full-grown women? At last a happy thought came to him. “I have been thinking,” he said, when the meal was over, and his guests were regretfully wiping their mouths, “I have been thinking, Miss Sally, what a convenience it would be to me if one of you ladies would do my cooking, and housekeep for me regular. You might take it in turn, if you liked; a little exercise don’t hurt nobody, and I shouldn’t care. Then we could all eat together sociable, and you could do your sewing just the same, unless you could find other work.” He said nothing of the rent, which indeed had not been demanded or paid since Dora’s death.