"So it 'pears. Wal, she hadn't any call to, I s'pose. You aint none o' hers."
By this time they were in the kitchen of the farmhouse, Mrs. Morgan rubbing her hands above the stove, and Mary Mason also venturing near, stretching out her thin arms to the heat, for the adopted jacket was somewhat short in the sleeves.
"What's that mark on yer wrist?"
"Bruise—but it don't hurt now."
"Who done it?"
"Ma—Mis' Mason. I've lots worse'n that on me," said the small girl with some vanity.
"There, now! I jest knew that Mis' Mason was a hard case, though my man would never hear to it. What you going to do now?"
"I dunno." The accent implied that to be a matter of small moment.
"I don't s'pose we can turn you out to-night. There's room in the attic for you to sleep, but don't you go near one o' my girls' beds with that head o' yourn."
As a hostess, Mrs. Morgan was a slight improvement upon Mrs. Mason. She never took stick or strap to the foundling, and if she occasionally gave her a cuff on the ear it was never strong enough to knock the girl down. But the Morgan children bullied Mary Mason, the Morgan father grumbled at an extra mouth to feed, and when she had been about a month in the house the mistress of it told her she must move on.