Bessie has finally left school. The excitement, the chatter, the sudden air of superiority over the other children, the critical glance round the room when she returns home.... She has learnt next to nothing of school-work—which matters little, since she is strong, hopeful, and has a genuine wish to do her best. What does matter is, that she is careless, inclined to be slatternly, and has no idea of precision either in speech or work. (Few girls have.) This is in part, no doubt, mere whelpishness to be grown out of presently. She picks up some piece of gossip. "Mother! Mrs Long's been taken to hospital. Her's going to die, I 'spect."
"No her an't gone to hospital nuther. Dr Bayliss says as her's got to go if she ain't better to-morrow. Isn't that what you've a-heard now?"
"Yes—but I thought her'd most likely be gone 'fore this," says Bessie without, apparently, the least sense of shame, or even of inexactitude.
The other day she reached down a cup to get herself a drink of water. Then she took some pains to see if the cup still looked clean, and finding it did, she replaced it among the other clean ones on the dresser.
Her mother sent her out to the larder for some more bread. Bessie brought in a new loaf.
"That ain't it," said Mrs Widger. "There's a stale one there."
"No, there ain't."
"Yes, there is."
"I've looked, an't I?"
"Yu go an' look again, my lady."