She colored, was confused, and started with the top of it in her hand. I let her pass on before me so as to get a better prospect of what was going on.
From the glimpse that I got of her leg I thought she had been following the fashion—in adopting false calves. In hurrying her I had spoiled the proper adjustment of them, and they had slipped to her ankles. I intended to examine into the case when I reached the kitchen; but an explanation came by way of accident.
In order to make more speed, as I hurried her on before me, she let go the top of her stocking, the weight of what was in it brought it down over her shoe, and out fell two or three slices of meat. The cause of her clumsiness in moving was explained, also of her frequent absences. She had slily slipped away slice after slice, one at a time, and gone into the shed to secrete them in that safe place.
Under my eyes, as I stood looking at that meat, she had done it.
"Stop! pick up your meat, Bridget!"
"It's no matter, ma'am!"
Her face was ablaze with disappointment and smothered anger, and tears filled her eyes.
"Stop, and pick up that meat!"
She did so.