Martha Stevens was mending a child's frock by the dim light of a wintry afternoon. Snow outside fell thickly; and there were only a few decaying embers in the grate. Food and firing were hard to procure. Not once or twice only, since Holdfast spoke to Mr. Hughes of the Stevens' needs, kind supplies had been sent from the Rectory; but such supplies could only mean temporary relief.
One thing after another had gone to the pawnshop. The best Sunday clothes first; then all the little ornaments and treasures and knick-knacks; and at last even Martha's wedding-ring. The once cheery home was changed.
"I'm so hungry, mother, I don't know what to do."
Bobbie's nine-years-old manliness threatened to fail him; and there was the sound of a sob. Little Millie, curled up on the ground at her mother's feet, lifted her head slowly.
"It's no good crying, Bobbie," she said, in a grave unchildlike manner. "Mother hasn't got nothing?"
"Millie's hungry too, I know," said Mrs. Stevens. "And she don't go on as you do, Bobbie."
"Millie's a girl," sobbed Bobbie. "I don't think she feels it so dreadful bad as me."
"She's worse than any of us, I know that," said Martha, looking down on the tiny blue stick of an arm, which had once been so round and mottled. "And boys hadn't ought to give in more easy than girls."
Bobbie put his head down on a chair, and tried to smother the sobs; but it was hard work. Grown-up men found it no easy task to endure the gnawings of hunger which could not be satisfied; and it was no wonder that Bobbie, with his keen boyish appetite, should fail.
"I'm so hungry,—I'm so hungry," broke out from him anew.