"I'm glad mammie's out, Mattie. I wish you was our mammie, and could take us clean away," said Bob, hanging about Mattie's chair.
"When I get bigger and can earn money, that's what I'm going to do, you know, Bob. Me, and Melie, and you'll just work and keep the children, and we won't have 'em knocked about, poor little mites, will we?"
"No, we won't, but I wish we was big enough now," sighed Bob, to whom the tempting prospect was sufficiently familiar and delightful to help him to bear bravely the privation of his daily lot.
"Well, we ain't, so it's no use wishing we was," responded matter-of-fact Mattie; "but I'll tell you what I do wish, and that is as mammie and daddie'd just turn over a new leaf, and stop the drinking. Then we'd never need to be talking of running away and leaving 'em; for I tell you, we'd all pretty soon know the difference."
"Tell us what a nice home we'd have afore long, and what jolly things we'd get to eat," said Bob.
"Don't you be so greedy, Bob. 'Tain't the want of good things to eat as troubles me so much. It's the rows, and the swearing, and the kicking, and beating, as takes the life out of one," and Mattie's face grew dark as she spoke.
"Mattie," asked Melie, as she munched away at her crust; "do all mammies get drunk like ourn?"
"They do about here, I b'lieve," answered Mattie, somewhat dubiously; "but lor, no, child, in course they don't. There's the lady in the shop where we buy our penn'orths of bread, as allers is as kind and pleasant spoken to her little uns as—as—"
A comparison was not speedily forthcoming, but Bob finished his sister's sentence by saying: "Like you are to all of us, Mattie."
"I'd hate to speak cross to bits of things like you," answered Mattie loftily, but with a little glow at her heart because of the spontaneous tribute to her sisterly care. "We'd better be off, I'm thinking," she said presently, and tying an old rag under the baby's chin by way of head-gear, she passed her own battered straw hat to Melie, saying: