She proceeded to occupy herself busily at the little oil stove, putting into the greasy frying-pan some chops which she had brought home with her. The spluttering and the pungent odor of the frying fat soon filled the two rooms. She cut a few slices from a loaf of stale bread, and set the meager repast forth upon the top of a wooden box. "Come and have dinner, Francis!" she said, with a sweet look at him. That the boy was far older than his years was evident by the way he watched her and took his cue from her, humoring her in her madder moments, restraining her in her moods of mystic exaltation, pathetically affectionate during her lucid intervals. She was in this last phase now, and from time to time, in the course of their meal, his hand stole to hers. Its pressure was softly returned. "What have you read to-day?" "I finished _Gulliver_." "What did you think of it?" "Why, somehow, it seemed just like it might be true." "_As if_ it might be true, Francis—what did I tell you?" Her tone grew severe, almost pedagogic. "You must be careful of your talk, my boy! Never forget; it is important. You’ll never get on if you’re careless and common. You will often be judged by your speech. What else did you read?" "I tried Montaigne’s _Essays_, but I couldn’t understand much. It seemed so dull to me. But there’s one, _Whether the Governor of a Place Besieged Ought Himself to go out to Parley_. I like that!" Madam Grant laughed. "I’d like to have known Montaigne; he was a kind of old maid, but he was a modern, after all; common sense will do if you can’t get humor." "Where did you get all these books, Mamsy?" Her face grew blank again; her eyes wandered. She recited in a sort of croon: "Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin. How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of his kin?" A frightened look came on the boy’s face and his hand went to hers again. "Mamsy, Mamsy!" he cried. "Come back, Mamsy! I want you!" She turned to him as if she had never seen him before. "Oh!" she said, and drew aside. Then: "You mustn’t ask questions, my boy." "I won’t, Mamsy." "You’re a good little boy and you came out of the dark," she pursued. "Out of the dark?" he repeated, tempting her on. His curiosity was manifest. "Don’t you remember?" "I’m not sure. They was a place—" "There was a place," she corrected. "There was a place where they beat me, and I ran away, and I found you, and you were good to me." "No, it is you who have been good—I’m not good; I’m bad, Francis." "I know you’re good, Mamsy, because you teach me to do everything right, and I love you!" With a quick impulse she clasped him to her, but even as she did so, her face changed again, this time with an expression of pain. She put her hand to her heart suddenly and moaned. He watched her in terror. "Get the bottle!" she commanded huskily, dropping to the floor, to support herself on her elbow.