"I wonder when these things was washed afore," said the woman, scrubbing at them. "Like it? You kin go in and ask her."
Matilda pushed open the inner door, and somewhat reluctantly went in. It was decent, that room was; and this disabled old woman lay under a patchwork quilt, on a bed that seemed comfortable. But the window was shut, and the air was close. It was very disagreeable.
"How do you do to-day, Mrs. Rogers?" Matilda said, stepping nearer the bed.
"Who's that?" was the question.
"Matilda Englefield."
"Who's 'Tilda Eggleford?"
"I live in the village," said Matilda. "Are you much sick?"
"Laws, I be!" said the poor woman. "It's like as if my bones was on fire, some nights. Yes, I be sick. And I'll never be no better."
"Does anybody ever come to read the Bible to you?"
"Read the Bible?" the sick woman repeated. Her face looked dull, as if there had ceased to be any thoughts behind it. Matilda wondered if it was because she had so little to think of. "What about reading the Bible?" she said.