No wonder Hilda got on so well with Cricket, who always made things easy for her, and loved and admired her with all her unselfish little soul.
“You must pin up your skirts like a washerwoman,” said the old lady, quite delighted with her own appearance. “Now roll your sleeves up. Mosina is your baby, you know, and I’m her grandma. Now, what let’s do?”
“I wonder what Mrs. Brummagen does when she isn’t washing? Do you s’pose she reads? Why, Hilda, there isn’t a book around! Don’t you s’pose she ever reads?” with the greatest astonishment.
“Probably she gets books from the public library,” suggested Hilda. “Anyway, I dare say she hasn’t much time to read. I shouldn’t think washerwomen people would have. Perhaps she sews.”
“There isn’t a sign of a work-basket,” said Cricket, looking around with increased astonishment. “Do you suppose this is all she sews with?” pointing to a spool of coarse white thread with a big needle sticking in it, and a brass thimble standing by it.
“It must be. No books and no sewing! What do you suppose she does in the evening?” exclaimed Hilda.
“It’s very queer,” said Cricket, thoughtfully.
Neither child, of course, had much more idea of the life of the very poor than they had of the habits of a kangaroo.
“But we must do something. We can’t sit around all day,” added Cricket briskly. “Oh, let’s finish the washing!”
“Do you think that’ll be fun?” asked Hilda, doubtfully. “The clothes are all wet.”