Mrs Crump was a discontented old lady who lived in the room beneath Nurse. For some reason Nancy took a deep interest in her, and even in the middle of Nurse’s best stories she was always on the alert for the least sound of the sharp complaining tones below.
“Oh, of course not!” said Pennie hastily; “I mean some contented, good-natured old woman.”
“Mrs Crump says,” continued Nancy, “that she never knew what it was to be quick in her temper till she felt the want of an oven. She thinks it’s the baker’s bread that makes her cross. She turns against it, and that makes her speak sharp.”
“She’s a tiresome old woman,” said Pennie, “and I can’t make out why you like to hear about her, or talk to her. Let’s go up softly, else she’ll come out.”
“I should like her to,” said Nancy as the little girls climbed the steep carpeted stairs which led up to Nurse’s room. “She’s just like an old witch woman.”
The children were warmly received by Nurse, who was waiting for them with all her preparations made. A snug round tea-table, with a bunch of chrysanthemums in the middle, a kettle hissing hospitably on the hob, and something covered up hot in the fender. She herself was arrayed in her best cap, her black silk gown, and her most beaming smiles of welcome.
“It’s my turn to make the toast,” said Nancy, pulling off her gloves briskly. “You’ve got a lovely fire. You cut the bread, Pennie. Thick.”
“And how’s Miss Dickie?” said Nurse, watching these preparations with a delighted face. “Bless her dear little heart, I haven’t seen her this long while.”
“She wanted to come,” said Pennie, “but she’s got a cold, so mother wouldn’t let her.”
“A little dear,” repeated Nurse. She sat with her hands folded on her waist, turning her kind round face first on Pennie and then on Nancy, who, kneeling on the hearth, was making toast in a business-like serious manner.