“Quite impossible,” returned the matron with decision. “We cannot make an exception. They would all want to wear their own dirty, fusty things and there would be no end to it. But everything will he taken good care of, and given back to her when she leaves.”
“She is seventy-five now,” said Nurse Margaret. “She has not a friend in the world, nor, I believe, a penny. I am afraid it is not very likely that better times will come for her.”
Maria had listened to this colloquy in a dazed, stupid way, and made no attempt to speak again until her precious plate was taken away from her, when she broke into clamorous protestations.
“Don’t, don’t ax me to part wi’ the rosy plate! It be all as I’ve a-left in the world. It’ll not take no room—I can jist keep it under my piller, and nobody ’ull know it be there. Do ’ee now, ma’am, do ’ee let me keep it!”
But again she was confronted with those terrible rules; and she was led away, weeping bitterly, to her new quarters.
She found herself in the company of some twenty old women in a large whitewashed room. Some were knitting, some were sewing, one dandling a hapless six-months-old baby, whose mother was at work in some other part of the establishment.
Maria sat down on the edge of the bed that was allotted to her, and looked vacantly round; one or two of the women spoke to her, but she scarcely heeded them.
A big bell clanged out presently, and she was told that it was for tea, and feebly followed in the wake of her companions, as they went trooping down a flagged passage and into a large room with a long table running down its centre—a bare deal table with benches on either side, each place being marked by a tin mug and a hunch of bread, on the top of which was laid a lump of butter or cheese.
Maria’s right-hand neighbour instantly began to spread her butter with her thumb. The younger woman on her left took alternate mouthfuls from the cheese and the bread.
“Bain’t there no knives nor plates?” inquired Maria, suddenly awaking to the fact of their absence.