The secret of this receipt all lay in a particular kind of starch, which was so fine, pure, and excellent, so far beyond Glenfield’s Starch, or anybody else’s starch, that even old lace could be stiffened with it, instead of with sugar. Mrs Jenks made this starch herself, and through Miss Mary’s aid she was putting by quite a nice little supply of money for Willie when he came home—money honestly earned, that could help to apprentice him to an honest trade by and by.
But there was one ingredient in the starch which was both rare and expensive, and of all places in the world, could only be got good in a certain shop in Whitechapel Road. Mrs Jenks used to buy it of a little old Jew who lived there, and as the starch was worthless without it, she generally kept a good supply in the house.
No Londoner can forget the severe cold of last winter, no poor Londoner can forget the sufferings of last winter. Snow, and frost, and hail, bitter winds, foggy days, slippery streets, every discomfort born of weather, seemed to surround the great metropolis.
On one of these days in February, Mrs Jenks came home quite early, and as she had no more charing to get through, she built up a good fire, and set to work to make a fresh supply of starch. Flo sat at one side of her and Scamp at the other, both child and dog watching her preparations with considerable interest. She had set on a large brass pan, which she always used on these occasions, and had put in the first ingredients, when, going to her cupboard, she found that very little more than a table-spoonful of the most valuable material of all was left to her.
Here was a state of affairs! She wrung her hands in dismay; all the compound, beginning to boil in the brass pan, would be lost, and several shillings’ worth thrown away.
Then Flo came to the rescue. If Mrs Jenks stayed to watch what was boiling, she—Flo—would start off at once to Whitechapel Road, and be back with the necessary powder before Mrs Jenks was ready for it.
The widow looked out of the window, where silent flakes of snow were falling, and shook her head—the child was delicate, and the day—why, even the ’buses were hardly going—it could not be!
But here Flo overruled her. She reminded her of how all her life she had roughed it, in every conceivable form, and how little, with her thick boots on, she should mind a walk in the snow. As to the ’buses, she did not like them, and would a thousand times rather walk with Scamp. Accordingly, leading Scamp by his collar and chain, which Miss Mary had given him, she set off.
Mrs Jenks has often since related how she watched her walk across the court, such a trim little figure, in her brown wincey dress and scarlet flannel cloak—another gift of Miss Mary’s—and how, when she came to the corner, she turned round, and, with her beautiful brown eyes full of love and brightness, kissed her hand to the widow—and how Scamp danced about, and shook the snow off his thick coat, and seemed beside himself with fun and gaiety of heart.
She did not know—God help her—she could not guess, that the child and dog were never to come back.