It wasn't an attractive kitchen, such as Eliza's, at Grandma Sherwood's; it was bare and comfortless-looking, though clean and in good order.
"Now, now, little miss," said Mrs. Geary, hobbling about, "fust of all, let's get some supper down ye. When did ye eat last?"
"This noon," said Marjorie, and then, at the remembrance of the happy, merry luncheon table at Seacote, she put her head down on her arms, and sobbed as if she had never cried before.
"Bless 'ee, bless 'ee, now, my lamb; don't go fer to take on so. There, there, have a sup o' warm milk! Oh, my! my!"
In deference to Mrs. Geary's solicitude, Marjorie tried hard to conquer her sobs, and had finally succeeded, when Mr. Geary came in.
"Don't bother her any to-night, Mother," he said, after a sharp glance at Marjorie; "she's all on edge. Feed her up good, and tuck her into bed."
"Yes, yes; here, my lamb, here's a nice soft-boiled egg for your tea. You'll like that, now?"
"Thank you," said Marjorie, her great, dark eyes looking weird in the dimly lighted kitchen.
After a satisfying supper, Mrs. Geary took the child up to a low, slant-ceiled room, that was as bare and clean as the kitchen. The old woman bathed Marjorie's face and hands with unexpected gentleness, and then helped her to undress. She brought a coarse, plain nightgown of her own, but it was clean and soft, and felt comfortable to the tired child.
Then she was tucked between coarse sheets, on a hard bed, but so weary was she that it seemed comfortable.