A CHILD OF THE JAGO
herself, with melancholy pleasure, by a nerveless show of "setting to rights" in the room—a domestic novelty, perfunctory as it was. Looey, still restless and weeping, she left on the bed, for, being neglected herself, it was not her mood to tend the baby; she would aggravate the relish of her sorrows in her own way. Besides, Looey had been given something to eat a long time ago, and had not eaten it yet; with her there was nothing else to do. So that now, as she dragged a rag along the grease-strewn mantelpiece, Mrs. Perrott greeted Dicky: "There y' are, Dicky, comin' 'inderin' 'ere jest when I'm a-puttin' things to rights." And she sighed with the weight of another grievance.
Looey lay on her back, faintly and vainly struggling to turn her fearful little face from the light. Clutched in her little fist was the unclean stump of bread she had held for hours. Dicky plucked a soft piece and essayed to feed her with it, but
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