"Not much chance of Sunday dinners, till father brings home wages regular again," sighed Martha.
She looked thin and worn, poor woman, with weeks of insufficient food. Little enough came into the house these days; and what there was, she reserved, mother-like, as far as possible for the children, eating scarcely enough herself to keep soul and body together.
"I'm so hungry, mother. I'm always hungry," complained Bobbie. "We don't never have enough now. O mother, it used to be so nice on Sundays. It isn't now."
"No," she said patiently. "I haven't much for you to-morrow, Bobbie, without father brings anything home. And that ain't likely. I don't know whether—"
She paused to stoop over baby Harry. He was lying on the little cot-bed, covered by a shawl. A slight moaning had drawn her attention.
"He's so cold to-night. I don't like his look," she said anxiously. "Millie, just put one more scrap of coal on the fire. We mustn't use it all. But he's like ice."
"Harry hasn't eaten nothing all day," said Millie.
"He don't seem to have no appetite. He's got so low, for want of proper food—that's where it is," Martha said bitterly. "He turns against everything now. I'm sure I'm at my wits' end to know what to do. If he don't get better by Monday, I'll have to take him to the doctor's—not as it's much use. Good food's what he wants; and how am I to get it for him?"
She lifted the little fellow, and brought him close to the fire, where she sat down. Harry lay heavily across her knees, not looking up at any of them.
Martha leant forward to touch up the tiny fire.