But this tragic suggestion was of no comfort.
“Better so, Miss,” she replied, with fresh wails of grief. “Ah, yes, ’twould have been far better. Me, with me good man in the hospital, and seven homeless children, what can I ever do now?”
The question was, indeed, unanswerable, and the neighbors, many of them also poverty-stricken stood about volubly but uselessly sympathetic.
“Here, take these boxes, Mops,” called King. “They’re tied up, and they may have valuables in.”
Marjorie took a pile of boxes from her brother, and Mrs. Simpson, looking at them with interest, said:
“Yes, I’m glad to save those; they’re bits of ribbons and silks for patchwork.”
As the poor woman had now no beds to put patchwork quilts on, the boxes did not seem so very valuable, but King hadn’t waited to learn; he had returned to the house for other things. The firemen handed them out, or threw them from the windows, and those that King received he handed over to Marjorie and Kitty, who stacked them up in nondescript-looking heaps.
Kitty had stood Rosy Posy up against Mrs. Simpson, and bade her stay there.
“Look after her, please,” she said to the half-distracted woman, “and then I can help save your things. Be good, won’t you, Baby, and stay right there till sister comes back.”
“Ess,” acquiesced little Rosamond, and, sinking down on the ground, began to dig in the dirt with an iron spoon she found near by. Blissfully happy with this occupation, and pausing now and then to watch the novel spectacle of the burning house, Rosy Posy staid just where Kitty had told her, and Mrs. Simpson found it as easy to look after three babies as two.