The child, a girl of about eight years old, raised herself eagerly on the hard couch on which she was lying. She was very like Dan, with the same brown skin and dark eyes, but the eyes had no merry twinkle in them. Her face was thin and drawn, and had the appealing look which comes of suffering borne with patience.
“Is it a rabbit, Dan?” she asked, peering at the soft furry thing in her brother’s arms.
“It’s a little cat,” said Dan, putting the kitten gently down by her side, “as Bill was going to ill-treat.”
Becky touched the kitten with her thin fingers. “Its eyes is shut,” she said. “Oh Dan, I’m feared it’s dead.”
The woman had now drawn near to look at the kitten too. She had a fair skin and very pale blue eyes, which were always wide open, as though she were surprised at something; when this expression changed, it became a fretful one, which had also got into the tone of her voice.
“Give us a drop o’ milk, mother,” said Dan; “that’ll do it good.”
“Milk indeed!” said Mrs Tuvvy; “and what next? Where’s the money to come from to buy milk for cats, when goodness knows if we shall soon have bit or drop to put into our own mouths?”
Neither of the children took any notice of their mother’s remarks, or answered the questions which she continued to put.
“How do you suppose we’re going to live, now yer father’s got turned off? Who’s a-goin’ to pay the doctor’s bill, I should like to know?”
Dan rose and fetched from the table a small basin covered with a saucer.