The woman pulled aside the white fluffy shawl; two soft clear brown eyes looked up at her, and a little mouth was curved to a radiant smile.
"Fore sure she's purty," said the woman. "Look, Patrick. She minds me o'--well, never mind. Missy, it ain't good for a babe like that to be out in the night air. You're best in the house, and so is the babe. The dawgs shan't touch yer. Come into the house, and I'll give yer what supper's going, and the babe, pretty crittur, shall have a drink of milk."
"I would not injure the baby," said Flower. She held both arms firm round it, and entered the smoky, dismal hut.
The wife of Micah Jones moved a stool in front of the fire, pushed Flower rather roughly down on it, and then proceeded to cut thick hunches of sour bread and cheese. This was quite the coarsest food Flower had ever eaten, and yet she never thought anything more delicious. While she ate the woman sat down opposite her.
"I'll take the babe now and feed it," she said. "The pretty dear must be hungry."
It was not little Pearl's way to cry. It was her fashion to look tranquilly into all faces, and to take calmly every event, whether adverse or otherwise. When she looked at Flower she smiled, and she smiled again into the face of the rough woman who, in consequence, fed her tenderly with the best she had to give.
"Is the soup done?" said the rough man, suddenly coming forward. "It's soup I'm arter. It's soup as'll put life into Miss, and give her a mind to walk them miles to the nearest town."
"The soup's in the pot," she said. "You can give it a stir, Pat, if you will. Nathaniel will be in by-and-by, and he'll want his share. But you can take a bowl now, if you like, and give one to Missy."
"Ay," said the man, "soup's good; puts life into a body."
He fetched two little yellow bowls filled one for Flower, stirring it first with a pewter spoon.
"This'll put life into you, Miss," he said.
He handed the bowl of soup to the young girl. All this time the woman was bending over the baby. Suddenly she raised her head.
"'Tis a bonny babe," she said. "Ef I was you, Pat, I wouldn't stir Missy's soup. I'd give her your own bowl. I has no quarrel with Miss, and the babe is fair. Give her your own soup, Patrick."