“You,” quietly answered truthful Owlet, without a moment’s hesitation, yet without meaning offense.
“Oh! Me! I’m not nice enough for you, ain’t I, my fine little Feather?” inquired the crone.
Owlet looked at her.
She was a tall, large-boned, strong old woman, with harsh features, small, deep-set, pale gray eyes, dark, leathery skin, and straggling, iron-gray hair. She was clothed in a petticoat and sack, dark and thick of material, darker and thicker with accumulations of dirt, and half in rags. Over her head and shoulders she wore a very ragged old plaid shawl, with the pattern obliterated by dirt. On her shoulders she bore a huge bundle of rags—a ragpicker by trade, evidently, very poor probably, though some of her sort have been known to save and hoard large sums of money; very wicked, possibly, yet, in any case, to be more pitied than blamed, certainly. Who are we, who have received sane mental and moral natures from our forefathers, and have been trained amid favorable circumstances, to judge our less fortunate brothers and sisters of this world? We know so little. We can but have faith in the Lord and charity for them, and with all humility in ourselves.
“Not nice enough for you, eh?” repeated the woman, as they turned another corner and dived down another narrow, wretched street.
“Why don’t you take a bath and put on clean clothes?” inquired Owlet.
“Why don’t I take a bath and put on clean clothes? Oh, the innocent arsks me why I don’t take a bath and put on clean clothes! Oh, he, he, he!” chuckled the ragpicker.
“Lady bathes and changes her clothes every blessed day. And so do I. Why don’t you?” persisted Owlet, in the interests of health and cleanliness and—of her own nose.
“She and you is rich belike, and I be poor,” replied the crone.
“But water is cheap enough. Everybody can get as much water as they want to wash with. Why don’t you?”