"And so I will this." "But you won't bring back the cold chicken and ham," retorted Liza. "Why, how could I, my dear? You know they won't keep." "Well, once for all, mother, I won't, and there's an end of it." "You'll break my heart, Liza, 'fore you've done," whimpered the fish-woman. "Think o' the days and days as I've carried you 'bout in this very basket, when I've been out gathering mussels or selling fish." "Now, don't talk stuff, mother. You weared out half-a-dozen baskets since then." "P'r'aps I have, Liza, but I haven't weared out the feeling that you're my gal, as lives here on the fat o' the land, and hot puddens every day, and refuses to give your poor mother a bit o' broken wittle to save her from starving. Oh!" "Mother, don't!" cried Liza, stamping her foot. "If you cry like that they'll hear you in the parlour." "Then give me a bit o' something to eat, and let me go." "I won't, and that's flat, mother." "Then I shall sit down on the front doorstep, and I'll wait till Miss Louie comes; and she'll make you give me something. No, I won't; I'll stop till cook comes. Where is she?" "A-cleaning herself." "Then I shall wait." "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried Liza, stamping about, and speaking in a tearful whisper. "I do wish I never hadn't had no mother, that I do." "There's a ungrateful gal," said the fish-woman; "and you growed up so beautiful, and me so proud on you." "Well, will you promise to go away, mother, and never come and ask no more if I give you something this time?" "To be sure I will, my dear, of course. There, be quick, before any one comes, and do it up neat in a napkin, there's a good gal, and I'll bring you a lobster next time I come." "There, now, and you promised you wouldn't come no more." "Ah, well, I won't then, my dear." "Then I'll get you a bit this time; but mind, never no more." "No, never no more, my beauty. Only be quick." Liza disappeared, and Poll Perrow took off her basket and sat down on the edge, rubbing her knees and laughing heartily to herself, but smoothing her countenance again directly, as she heard her daughter's step. "There, mother," whispered Liza, "and I feel just as if there was the police after me, same as they was after Master Harry. This is the last time, mind." "Yes, my beauty, the last time. What is there?" "No, no, don't open it," cried the girl, laying her hand sharply upon the parcel she had given to her mother. "There's half a pork pie, and a piece of seed cake, and a bit o' chicken." "Any bread?" "Yes, lots. Now hide it in your basket, and go." "To be sure I will, Liza." And the white napkin and its contents were soon hidden under a piece of fishing-net. "There, goodbye, my dear. You'll be glad you've helped your poor old mother, that you will, and-- Good mornin', Miss Margreet." "Put that basket down," said the old lady sharply, as she stood gazing imperiously at the detected pair. "Put the basket down, miss?"