"Come home with me, and let's have a bit o' talk together, Mattie—there's a friend or two o' your age a-coming to have a little talk with me to-night."
"Don't you keep a lodging house now?"
"No—a little shop for bones and bottles and such things; and we has a party in the back parler twice a week, and something nice and hot for supper."
"A school—on your own hook?" said Mattie, quickly.
"Oh! how sharp we gets as we grows up!—but you allus was as sharp as any needle, and I was only saying to Simes but yesterday, if I could just drop on little Mattie, she'd be the werry gal to do us credit—she would."
"I've been shifting for myself these last two years and odd, and I got on tidy till the frost set in, and now it's—all up!"
"Ah!—all up—precisely so."
Mrs. Watts did not detect the tragic element in Mattie's peroration; she had sallied forth in search of her, and had found her in the streets ragged and penniless and hungry. It was worth while to speculate in Mattie now—to show her some degree of kindness—to lure her back to the old haunts, and something worse than the old life. She began her temptations, and Mattie listened and trembled—the night was cold, and she had not tasted food that day. Mrs. Watts kept her hand upon the girl, and expatiated upon the advantages she had to offer now—even attempted to draw Mattie along with her.
"Wait a bit—don't be in a hurry," said Mattie; "I'll come presently p'raps—not just now."
"Oh! I'm not so sweet on you," said Mrs. Watts, aggrieved; "come if you like—stop away if you like—it's all one to me. I'll go about my rump-steaks for supper, and you can stay here and starve, if you prefer it."