"She said, Molly did, 'Look 'ere, Barbara, mind you're good, and mind you allus keep good. If you don't you shan't be no sister of mine.' That's wot I won't forgit as long as ever I live. But O Molly, Molly, why don't you come back? Why don't you come back!"
The imploring earnestness of this appeal powerfully affected me, and I gazed pitifully at poor Barbara, from whose eyes the tears were streaming. That when she put her hands up to her eyes, she should keep her little fist tightly clenched, touched me to the heart; the little silver piece was her shield against hunger, for a few hours at least, and she clung to it instinctively through all her grief. I waited till she was calmer before I said:
"Dress yourself quickly, Barbara, and come upstairs with us. There's a nice fire there, and I want to talk to you about Molly. We will try and find her for you, and you shall not be hungry again. Will you trust me?"
"Yes, sir, I will; no one could speak kinder, and you're not the sort of gentleman to take me in. Perhaps you won't mind telling me 'ow long you've been 'ere. I didn't know there was anybody in the house but me."
"We came only a few hours ago, Barbara," I answered, "and I have been here but once before."
"Wot did you come the first time for, sir?"
"The house is to let, and I thought of taking it."
"To live in, sir?"
"Yes, to live in."
"But you're never going to, sir?"