"Old Sally Eldridge? Sam's grandmother?"
"I don't know anything about Sam," said Matilda. "She lives alone."
"Well, she lives alone. That's her door yonder—where the cat sits."
"Thank you." Matilda thought to ask if the boy went to Sunday-school; but she felt as if all the force she had would be wanted to carry her through the visit to Mrs. Eldridge. It was a forlorn-looking doorway; the upper half of the door swinging partly open; the cottage dropping down on one side, as if it was tired of the years when it had stood up; not a speck of paint to be seen anywhere, and little, bare, broken windows, not even patched with rags. Matilda walked up to the door and knocked, sorely appalled at the view she got through the half-open doorway. No answer. She knocked again. Then a weak, "Who is it?"
Matilda let herself in. There was a worn and torn rag carpet; an unswept floor; boards and walls that had not known the touch of water or soap in many, many months; a rusty little stove with no fire in it; and a poor old woman, who looked in all respects like her surroundings; worn and torn and dusty and unwashed and neglected. To her Matilda turned, with a great sinking of heart. What could she do?
"Who's here?" said the old woman, who did not seem to have her sight clear.
"Matilda Englefield."
"I don't know no such a person."
"Maybe you would like to know me," said Matilda. "I am come to see you."
"What fur? I hain't sent for nobody. Who told you to come?"