“Change your feet, lassie, direc’ly, or you’ll tak’ cauld,” said Mrs Flint in a peremptory tone.
May laughed gently and retired to her private boudoir to change her shoes. The boudoir was not more than eight feet by ten in size, and very poorly furnished, but its neat, methodical arrangements betokened in its owner a refined and orderly mind. There were a few books in a stand on the table, and a flower-pot on the window-sill. Among the pegs and garments on the walls was a square piece of cardboard, on which was emblazoned in scarlet silk, the text, “God is love.” This hung at the foot of the bed, so as to be the first object to greet the girl’s eyes on awaking each morning. Below it hung a row of photographs, embracing the late Reverend James Maylands, his widow, his son Philip, his distant relative Madge, and the baby. These were so arranged as to catch the faint gleam of light that penetrated the window; but as there was a twenty-foot brick wall in front of the window at a distance of two yards, the gleam, even on a summer noon, was not intense. In winter it was barely sufficient to render darkness visible.
Poor May Maylands! It was a tremendous change to her from the free air and green fields of Ireland to a small back street in the heart of London; but necessity had required the change. Her mother’s income could not comfortably support the family. Her own salary, besides supporting herself, was devoted to the enlargement of that income, and as it amounted to only 50 pounds a year, there was not much left to pay for lodgings, etcetera. It is true Miss Lillycrop would have gladly furnished May with board and lodging free, but her house was in the neighbourhood of Pimlico, and May’s duties made it necessary that she should live within a short distance of the General Post-Office. Miss Lillycrop had heard of the Flints as being good-hearted and trusty people, and advised her cousin to board with them, at least until some better arrangement could be made for her. Meanwhile May was to go and spend part of every Sunday with Miss Lillycrop at Number 9 Purr Street.
“Well, Grannie,” said May, returning to the front room, where the sausages were already hissing deliciously, “what news have you for me to-night?”
She sat down beside the old woman, took her hand and spoke in that cheery, cosy, confidential way which renders some women so attractive.
“Deed, May, there’s little but the auld story—Mercies, mornin’, noon, and night. But, oo ay, I was maist forgettin’; Miss Lillycrap was here, an left ye a message o’ some sort.”
“And what was the message, Grannie?”
“She’s gone and forgot it,” said Solomon Flint, putting the sausages on the table, which had already been spread for supper by a stout little girl who was the sole domestic of the house and attendant on Mrs Flint. “You’ve no chance of getting it now, Miss May, for I’ve noticed that when the old ’ooman once forgets a thing it don’t come back to her—except, p’r’aps, a week or two afterwards. Come now, draw in and go to work. But, p’r’aps, Dollops may have heard the message. Hallo! Dollops! come here, and bring the kettle with you.”
Dollops—the little girl above referred to—was particularly small and shy, ineffably stupid, and remarkably fat. It was the last quality which induced Solomon to call her Dollops. Her hair and garments stuck out from her in wild dishevelment, but she was not dirty. Nothing belonging to Mrs Flint was allowed to become dirty.
“Did you see Miss Lillycrop, Dollops?” asked Solomon, as the child emerged from some sort of back kitchen.