"Only singing small," was the rejoinder with a grunt at her own wit; "you'd do better picking up brooches—you was allers clever with your fingers, mind you. I only wish I'd been 'arf as sharp when I was young."
"I—I only wish I hadn't—found the thing," commented the girl, sorrowfully.
"Well, I'm blest!"
Mrs. Watts was taking off the lid of her saucepan, and probing the contents with a fork.
"Fippence isn't a fortun, and the young chap gave me a ha-penny once when I was singing in Suffolk Street—I didn't mean it, somehow—I said I never would again! Don't you remember when mother died here, how she went on just at the last as to what was to become o' me; and didn't I say I'd grow up good, and stick to singing and begging, and all that fun—or go to the workus—or anythink?"
"Ah! your mother was a fine 'un to go on sometimes."
"And then I——"
"Now, I don't want to hear anythink about your goings on—I don't know where you found that brassy brooch—I don't want to know—Simes don't want to know! We takes your word for it, that it was come by proper, and the less you say about it, the better; and the sooner you turns into bed, if you don't want no supper, the better too."
"I don't see a good twopen'orth over there," commented Mattie; "they're as full as ever they can stick."
"Take the rug, gal, and have it all to yourself, here by the fire."