"What do you give him to eat? what does he like?"
"What does he like!" the woman repeated. "He don't like nothin' he has, and he don't eat nothin'. 'Tain't 'what we like,' young sir, that lives in these places. Some days he can't swaller dry bread, and he don't care for mush; he'll take a sup o' milk now and then, when I can get it; but it's poor thin stuff; somethin' you call milk, and that's all."
"Good bye," said David. "I'll bring him something he will like, perhaps. I hope we haven't hindered you."
"I don't have so many visits I need quarrel with this one," said the woman, coming to her door to shew them so much civility; "Sarah wouldn't bring anybody to make a spectacle of me."
They cast looks on the poor little brown heap in the corner of the entry, and groped their way down stairs again. But when they got out into the street and drew breaths of fresh air, David and Matilda stood still and looked at each other.
"I never knew what good air meant before," said the latter.
"And even this is not good," replied David.
"How does he live, that poor little creature, with not one breath of it?"
"He doesn't live; he is dying slowly," said David.
"Oh David, what can we do?"