The very day she was taken ill, he had been in the store-room with his mother, and she, knowing the pleasure he took in the scent of brown Windsor-soap, had made him a present of a small cake. This he had kept in his pocket ever since, wrapt in a piece of rose-coloured paper, his one cherished possession: hunger deadening sorrow, the time was come to bid it farewell. His heart ached to part with it, but Tommy and he were so hungry!
They went to the door of the house, and knocked—first Clare very gently, then Tommy with determination. It was opened by a matron who looked at them over the horizon of her chin.
“Please, ma’am,” said Clare, “will you give us a piece of bread?—as large a piece, please, as you can spare; and I will give you this piece of brown Windsor-soap.”
As he ended his speech, he took a farewell whiff of his favourite detergent.
“Soap!” retorted the dame. “Who wants your soap! Where did you get it? Stole it, I don’t doubt! Show it here.”
She took it in her hand, and held it to her nose.
“Who gave it you?”
“My mother,” answered Clare.
“Where’s your mother?”
Clare pointed upward.