"I can ask 'em and welcome, but I don't know as they would. But they are mighty kind."
As she spoke she went into the back room to give Miss Hobson a book which she had dropped on the floor, and the invalid called to Kittie to come too.
"Look 'ere," she said to her, "I've got a friend as I'll name ye to, if ye like to go and see her. She's the curate's wife, what comes to see me sometimes, and I know as she've got a heap of children and not much to do with. Would ye like to go?"
Kittie said she should, and the day being Saturday, and a half-holiday, she ran down to ask her mother's permission to go at once.
Mrs. Blunt said it could do no harm to try, and made Kittie as neat as her very spare wardrobe would allow, and saw her set forth on her errand with a strange feeling that she was going out into the world.
Kittie traversed the two or three streets that brought her to the one where the good man, who spent his life among the poor, had his home.
She rang timidly, and stood for some minutes much concerned that the door was not opened, though she heard feet running up and down, and children's voices many and shrill.
At last another step came nearer and nearer, and the door was opened by a lady, pale and careworn, the curate's wife herself, who led the way without asking any questions into the front room, where a baby was crawling on the hearth-rug, and two or three little ones were standing about watching Kittie with curiosity.
The curate's wife took up the baby, and bade Kittie be seated. She supposed she had come on account of some sick relative, and patiently waited to hear the story. But when Kittie had explained why she came the lady looked surprised and pleased.
"And you think you could help me at odd times?" she asked at last, "and would not get tired of the children? because, you know, I could not have them slapped even if they were tiresome."