"Well, I be and I been't," was his reply. "I'm looking through you, miss, and that's the fact."
"Oh, dear!" said Christian; "I think that makes matters a little worse."
"Would you like to hear a bit of a story, my deary?" said Mrs. Morris, drawing her straw arm-chair close to the fire as she spoke. "You don't mind the children hearing it, do you, John, my son?"
"No, mother," was his answer. "You tell 'em just as much as you think fit."
"Well, loveys," said Mrs. Morris, "it was just like this. John and me, we owed a bit of money—exactly seven pounds ten—and we didn't know how on the wide earth to get it, and the man to whom we owed it was about to sell us up. He was going to put the brokers into this little bit of a house, my darlings."
"Who are they?" asked Christian.
"Men, lovey—cruel men. They come and take possession of your house, and you can't call even the bed you sleep on your own, to say nothing of your little frying-pan and china-lined saucepan. And when a day or two has gone by they sell everything and take away the money, and you are left without stick or stone belonging to you."
"That must be very awful. I never heard of anything quite so awful," said Christian; "and only for seven pounds ten."
"I've heard of it," said Rosy. "There's one thing about poor folks: they do hear of that sort of thing. It's very bad, Mrs. Morris," she continued.