"Dear, dear, dear!" said the mother again; "I haven't one bit of rag handy; I have had to use all mine up for my boy's leg what was bad so long." Meg ran up-stairs, and soon returned with a nice clean piece from a store of old linen which had been given her at the Hall. She looked round for a basin, and soon had a little lukewarm water in it, and the rag put on the child's forehead. She sat holding it, the mother looking on at Meg's swift gentle ways with evident surprise and pleasure. When the crying grew less, and the little thing, pale and miserable, was laid on the little bed in the corner, Meg bethought herself of her bread, and took up her basket to go. "Thank you _kindly_," said the woman gratefully; "you've quite cheered me up a bit. This is a hard life for us poor mothers." Her eyes, which had once perhaps been as bright as Meg's, were sunken and tired. She glanced at the deserted breakfast-table, and said wearily-- "Work as me and him do, you may say, night and day, we can't satisfy their mouths. I can't tell you how I long for somethin' different from bread, Mrs. Seymour!" Meg's eyes had followed hers, and she could see that there had been nothing on that table that morning but milkless tea and dry bread. Nothing remained but a few small crumbs. "My 'usband says as it's hard to work and bring 'ome all he've earned, and then not to have enough after all. But what can I do? They've eaten a loaf and a half this mornin', and not one of 'em but could ha' eaten double!" "You have six children, haven't you?" said Meg, sympathizing truly, but feeling powerless to help. "Eight," answered the woman, "and all under twelve year old. Here's the baby." She led the way into the back room, where in a good-sized bed a baby still slept soundly. "You must have your hands full," said Meg kindly; "I wish I could think of anything to help you. Where are they all?" "Gone to school. They take even my biggest girl away from me, her as might be some 'elp, and I'm sure she don't want schooling as bad as she wants food." "It comes very hard on you. And so you have to stay at home with the babies?" "That's just it. I might put 'em out to be 'minded,' but I'm not going to have 'em starved under my eyes, and burnt and neglected and slapped! Not but what I slap 'em myself sometimes," she added with compunction, "when I'm that tired--but not so often considering; and I'm not going to put 'em out for nobody." She seemed glad to have some one to pour out her griefs to, and Meg hardly liked to hurry away. "I thought when I see you first as you'd soon get untidy like the rest of the girls, but you ain't yet!" remarked the woman, as they went back to the other room. Meg smiled. "I hope not," she said gently; "but you know I have not got a lot of children to feed and see to. I should have no excuse now." Just as she was turning to the door she thought of something. "I wonder if you ever make oatmeal porridge for your children?" she asked.