“This isn’t the kitchen; it’s all she has,” responded Cricket, in an equally low voice. “Lots of people have only one room.”
“Do they like it? Don’t they want more room?” said Hilda, amazed; for she always found it difficult to realise that people occasionally did things that they did not like to do. Her own experience, in that way, was very limited.
“They have to do it, goosie,” said Cricket, who had often been with her mother to see her poor people. “I like to come here. Isn’t it story-booky? See this cunning thing? Isn’t she clean?”
“She is awfully fat. Can she talk?”
“Just jabbers; you can’t understand her. Say ‘How do you do?’ baby.”
Mosina was a fine plaything, for she was exactly like a big wax doll. The children could do anything they pleased with her.
“You wouldn’t think this child could be such a torment at night,” said Cricket, feelingly. “In the daytime she is just like a lump of dough. She stays just where you put her. But at night—oh, goodness! she was just as if she had yeast in her. I was black and blue for a week after she slept with me that night. Oh, weren’t you bad!” addressing Mosina, with uplifted finger.
Just then a sharp knock came at the door, and Mrs. Brummagen, drying her hands on her apron, hurried to open it. A messenger stood there, saying that she was wanted immediately for a little extra work at the house of one of her regular employers. Some servant had unexpectedly left, and company was expected, and Mrs. Brummagen was requested to come back with the messenger for a few hours’ work.
“Ach, himmel!” cried little Mrs. Brummagen, uncertainly. “What I do? Mine vash in ze wassa iss, und mine leetle babby alone vill be. I cannot.”
“But you must,” said the boy, impatiently. “She tole me not to come back widout yer. Leave de kid wid de naybors. Yer’ll be back at four o’clock, she said.”