'Possum's pale face expanded in a delighted grin.
"Oh, I'm all right," she said. "Leastways, nearly! Me laigs'll be on strike for a few days, they say."
"No chill?" Aileen asked. "Are you truly all right, 'Possum, dear?"
It was not often that a word of endearment came in 'Possum's way. Her eyes, as she raised them to the tall girl bending over her, had something of the utter devotion of a dog.
"Lor, I dunno how to be ill!" she answered. "Don't you bother about me, Missus. If it wasn't for me silly old laigs I'd be as right as pie. I was a bit tired, but I slep' in this morning—never opened an eye till eight o'clock! Nice state the place 'ud get into if I was to do that often."
"And your father?"
"Oh, he's pretty right. Looks a bit washed out, but he's gone off to Coffey's to try an' get another pig. Did they tell you 'about it? Wasn't it rotten luck losin' that other one? He was a real good pig, too!"
"We might have lost you," Aileen said. She bent and kissed the girl lightly on the forehead. A swift wave of colour dyed 'Possum's face, and she caught Aileen's hand and held it tightly for a moment.
"Now we're going to have tea with you, and I'm going to help Bertha get it," said Aileen cheerfully.
"It ain't fit for you—we on'y got enamel cups," said 'Possum unhappily. "An' goodness on'y knows what there is to eat. To-day's bakin' day, by rights, but of course nothin's got done. Have we got any butter, Bert?"