“Here ye are,” declared the woman, still kneeling before the settee on which she had laid Dorothy. She spoke to the child. “Are they broke, I ax ye?”
“No, ma’am! No, ma’am, Mrs. Hogan,” stuttered Celia’s shrill little voice. “Oh, I didn’t break none; but the hulls come off two or three——”
“Little nuisance!” snapped the woman. “And ye’d lie about it, too. Put ’em careful on the shelf—or I’ll be the death of ye! Lit another egg be broken——”
The unfinished threat seemed to fill the child with terror. Dorothy heard her sobbing softly. Then she crept to Dorothy’s feet again and continued to unlace the bigger girl’s shoes. When they were drawn off Mrs. Hogan began to rub the girl’s feet. They were so cold and stiff that it seemed to Dorothy as though they would be broken right off in the woman’s hard hands.
She forced her eyes open, and saw the big woman on her knees. Celia’s wondering little face was close to her own. Dorothy sat up with sudden energy.
“Oh! oh! oh!” whispered Celia. “It is my dear, dear young lady!”
“Why, Celia——”
“Is it knowin’ aich other ye bes?” demanded Mrs. Hogan, suspiciously. Dorothy was half afraid of this muscular Amazon. She thought it best to tell the whole truth.
“I saw Celia in the Belding station the day you brought her home from the city foundling asylum, Mrs. Hogan,” she said, simply.
“Arrah! the little baggage!” grumbled the woman. “An’ she niver said a wor-r-rd about it—bad ’cess to her!”