Over the best dress she pinned a snowy kerchief, and putting on finally a clean widow’s cap, drew up the blinds and approached Flo’s side.
“I’ll just see about that poor foot now,” she said, “and then, while I am frying the herring for breakfast, you can wash and dress yourself, dearie.”
But poor Flo could not help wondering, as Mrs Jenks in her brisk clever way unbandaged her foot, and applied that pleasant strengthening lotion, who would do it for her to-morrow morning, or would she have any lotion to put. She longed to find courage to ask Mrs Jenks to allow her to take away what was left in the bottle, perhaps by the time it was finished her foot would be well.
And Flo knew perfectly, how important it was for her, unless she was utterly to starve, that that lame foot should get well. She remembered only too vividly what hard times Janey, even with a father and mother living, had to pull along with her lame foot, but she could not find courage to ask for the lotion, and Mrs Jenks, after using a sufficient quantity, corked up the remainder and put it carefully away.
“There’s an improvement here,” said the little woman, touching the injured ankle. “There’s more nerve, and strength, and firmness. You’ll be able to walk to-day.”
“I’ll try, ma’am,” said Flo.
“So you shall, and you can lean on me—I’ll bear your weight. Now get up, dearie.”
As Flo dressed herself she felt immensely comforted. It was very evident from Mrs Jenks’ words, that she intended going with her to her cellar, she herself would take her back to her wretched home.
To do this she must give up her day’s charing, so Flo knew that her going away was of some importance to the little woman, and the thought, as I have said, comforted her greatly.
She dressed herself quickly and neatly, and after kneeling, and repeating “Our Father” quite through very softly under her breath, the three—the woman, child, and dog—sat down to breakfast. It would be absurd to speak of it in any other way.