Felicia shook her head mournfully, the tears rising to her blue eyes, a choking lump in her throat.
"No appetite, I suppose?" continued her interrogator, "and little enough to eat anyway. Humph! Blouse-making is badly paid—far better to scrub for a living."
"Mother cannot scrub," said Felicia hastily; "she is not strong enough for such hard work as that."
"Not brought up to it, I take it."
Mrs. M'Cosh had placed the frying-pan on one side, and was warming a vegetable dish now; and as the teapot was hot, Felicia put the boiling water to the tea. "Let it draw on the stove for a minute," advised Mrs. M'Cosh, as she proceeded to slip several slices of liver and bacon into the vegetable dish. "There now, your mother will have a good cup of tea, and perhaps she will fancy a bit of my 'fry' for her supper," she added, as she placed the cover on the vegetable dish and put it with the teapot on a tray which she thrust into the little girl's hands.
"Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh!" gasped Felicia, quite overcome with astonishment and gratitude, "how can I thank you?"
"Don't, child. Liver's cheap, and there's plenty left for my husband. There, don't stop talking, but go to your mother. You can return the dish to-morrow."
She pushed the little girl out of the room and shut the door upon her. With flushed cheeks and eyes shining with gladness, Felicia climbed the stairs, carrying the tray very carefully.
"See, mother, what Mrs. M'Cosh has given me!" she exclaimed excitedly when she reached the attic. "Such a beautiful supper! Oh, isn't it kind of her?"
"It is, indeed," the sick woman agreed, raising herself on her elbow, and looking longingly at the covered dish. "What is it? It smells delicious."