"Mother says nothin' more ain't been seen of her," said Hor. "Queerest thing I ever heard of. Seems as if some'at wrong must have happened to the poor little lass."
"Father was askin' about her this mornin'," said Lettie. "He says he can't do no more. Mother thinks some one must ha' taken her off."
"Don't seem much sense in that, neither," said Hor. "She hadn't on a scrap o' clothes as would fetch sixpence. More likely—well, I don't know—but maybe it's a fancy o' the little thing herself. P'raps she's gone off, thinkin' she'll find her mother. I shouldn't wonder."
"Hor," said Lettie deliberately, "Ailie wasn't asleep, but only pretendin', when father talked o' the work'us for her."
"Wasn't she?" cried Hor.
"I'm sure I see her open one eye, an' shut it up again tight; an' she was cryin' after, when you all thought she was a-sleepin'."
"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Hor.
"I didn't like. Poor Ailie! Hor, I wouldn't like the work'us," said Lettie. "Isn't it a dreadful cruel place?"
Hor whistled. "Not as I knows on. Folks say we'd ought to think ourselves well off, to have it to go to. But 'tain't pleasant to be a-livin' on charity."
"What's charity?" asked Lettie, with wondering eyes. "Is it some sort o' nasty victuals?"