“P’r’aps I have, Liza, but I haven’t weared out the feeling that you’re my gal, as lives here on the fat o’ the land, and hot puddens every day, and refuses to give your poor mother a bit o’ broken wittle to save her from starving. Oh!”
“Mother, don’t!” cried Liza, stamping her foot. “If you cry like that they’ll hear you in the parlour.”
“Then give me a bit o’ something to eat, and let me go.”
“I won’t, and that’s flat, mother.”
“Then I shall sit down on the front doorstep, and I’ll wait till Miss Louie comes; and she’ll make you give me something. No, I won’t; I’ll stop till cook comes. Where is she?”
“A-cleaning herself.”
“Then I shall wait.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried Liza, stamping about, and speaking in a tearful whisper. “I do wish I never hadn’t had no mother, that I do.”
“There’s a ungrateful gal,” said the fish-woman; “and you growed up so beautiful, and me so proud on you.”
“Well, will you promise to go away, mother, and never come and ask no more if I give you something this time?”