“It isn’t Mrs Crump,” said Pennie, listening; “it’s somebody whose boots are much too big.”
The steps came slowly up the steep stairs, one at a time, with evident difficulty, and then there was a timid knock at the door.
“I know who it is. You may come in, Kettles,” said Nurse, raising her voice.
The door opened and Kettles came in. She was a little girl of about Nancy’s age, in a tattered frock, an old shawl, and a straw bonnet hanging back from her head by the strings. Her hair fell rough and tangled over her forehead, beneath which a pair of bright grey eyes looked out half suspiciously at the company, and yet with a sort of mouse-like shrewdness, which was increased by the whole expression of her sharp little pointed face. Pennie glanced at once at her feet. She had been right. Kettles’ boots were many sizes too large for her, which accounted for her difficulty in getting upstairs, and indeed everything she wore seemed to belong to a bigger and older person.
The children both stared in surprise at this little dingy figure, and Kettles returned their gaze, shifting her furtive glance from one face to the other with wonderful swiftness as she stood just inside the door, clasping a cracked china jug to her chest.
“You’ve come for my tea-leaves, haven’t you?” said Nurse as she opened her corner cupboard and took out a basin. “How’s your mother to-day?”
“She’s bad,” said Kettles decidedly, shutting up her mouth very tight after she had spoken.
“Is it her head again?” inquired Nurse.
“It’s ’ralgy all down one side of her face—orful,” said Kettles.
“Well, a cup of tea will do her good,” said Nurse as she put the tea-leaves into the jug.