“‘The floor.’
“‘I thought so; and skim milk and water to drink, I suppose?’
“‘It is a bit thin.’
“‘I can quite imagine it. You must leave these people, my dear, at once.’
“‘But where am I to go to?’
“‘Anywhere.’
“‘But who’ll take me in?’
“‘Anybody, if you go the right way to work. How many times do you think I’ve changed my people? Seven!—and bettered myself on each occasion. Why, do you know where I was born? In a pig-sty. There were three of us, mother and I and my little brother. Mother would leave us every evening, returning generally just as it was getting light. One morning she did not come back. We waited and waited, but the day passed on and she did not return, and we grew hungrier and hungrier, and at last we lay down, side by side, and cried ourselves to sleep.
“‘In the evening, peeping through a hole in the door, we saw her coming across the field. She was crawling very slowly, with her body close down against the ground. We called to her, and she answered with a low “crroo”; but she did not hasten her pace.
“‘She crept in and rolled over on her side, and we ran to her, for we were almost starving. We lay long upon her breasts, and she licked us over and over.