"No, I'm by myself," answered Meg. "But if you'd be so good as to give me a glass of milk I'd pay you right well. I'll sing six songs straight off and you'd be lucky to hear 'em," she added with spirit, "I wouldn't do it if it wasn't that I'm just beat with tiredness and hunger."
Meg was looking up at Dent with a pair of eyes that made him feel, he told the servants afterwards, and that, together with her promise of singing and her very evident sincerity, worked on his feelings to such an extent, that he slipped his master's Florin into his pocket and led the way round to the back of the house. Then opening the kitchen door he introduced the girl with a flourish.
"This young lady wants some milk, and you'll be pleased to give it to her post haste, Mrs. Brown, or you'll lose the chance of your life."
The cook looked round quickly.
"Come now what are you up to with your tricks," she said sharply, "we don't want no beggars here. Look out, girl," she added, as Meg bewildered, was on the point of obeying Dent's invitation to enter, "you'll bring a lot of mud in I'll be bound; a pretty muddle I'll be in to-morrow. And to choose to-night of all nights when I'm so busy and don't know which way to turn."
But Dent would not be denied. He knew Mrs. Brown, and was in no way abashed by her protest.
"Sit down, my girl," he said pointing to a chair by the door, "and," he added turning to the cook, "if you've got a mother's heart you'll give her something to eat and drink, she's fit to drop."
"I'll pay you right well by singing to you," said Meg as she dropped into a chair, "only I can't do nothin' till I have a drink and food, I'm fairly beat."
"Where have you come from?" inquired Mrs. Brown, in a softened tone of voice.
"All the way from Boxley Common," she said, "and I haven't had a mite of food since the sun rose this mornin'."