"Where's Tom?"
"He's away. He's gone off wid Johnnie, tryin' to shoot a gull. Here, Bill, run an' fetch yer dad, an' tell him Dr. Grenfell wants 'un."
A half-naked little boy about nine years old darted off into the scrub bushes.
"What's the matter with baby?" Dr. Grenfell inquired kindly, as the infant clasped his finger and looked up into his mild face.
"Hungry," was the mother's sufficient answer. "I ain't got nothin' to give him." Her lip trembled, and she turned her head away.
The baby kept up a constant whimpering, like a lamb very badly scared.
"It's half-starved," said the Doctor. "What do you give it?"
"Flour, and berries," was the response. "I chews the loaf first—or else it ain't no good for him."
Then a little girl, of perhaps five, and a boy of—maybe—seven, shyly came from behind the tent, where they had fled wild-eyed and hid when the strangers came. They had nothing on: but they were brown as chestnuts and fat as butter.
It was snowing, and the snow had driven them toward the poor, mean fire where mother sat with the baby.