“Please, ma’am,” she said presently, “wot am I to call yer?”
At this question the little woman paused, and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks.
“Why, now,” she said, “that’s a curious thing, but my name’s Jenks, same as that poor fellow they put in prison this morning—Mrs Jenks is my name, little Darrell.”
“Yes, missis,” replied Flo respectfully.
She had admired Mrs Jenks very much on the Derby Day, but now her feelings of wonder and admiration amounted almost to fear. For aught she could tell the owner of such a room might be a “Dook’s” wife in disguise.
“You sit in this chair and rest,” said Mrs Jenks, “and I’ll see about dinner.”
And Flo did rest, partly stunned by what she had witnessed and undergone, partly soothed by the novel scene now before her.
Mrs Jenks had made her take off mother’s old bonnet, and had placed her in the very softest of easy-chairs, where she could lie back and gaze at the little woman, with a wonder, a hunger of spiritual want, a sadness of some unexplained desire, all shining out of her eyes.
There were baked potatoes in a small oven at the side of the fire-place, and over the potatoes some nice pieces of hot bacon, and Mrs Jenks made coffee, fragrant coffee, such as Flo had never tasted, and toasted bread, and buttered it. Then she drew a little table up close to the open window, and placed a snowy cloth on it, then plates, and knives and forks, and then the potatoes and bacon, the coffee and toast; and when all was ready she put a chair for Flo, and another for herself.
But before they began to eat a more astonishing thing still happened. The little woman stood up, and folded her hands, and closed her eyes, and said these words:—