“Why!” echoed Martha. “Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. They’re as hungry as young hawks an’ foxes.”
“I don’t know what it is to be hungry,” said Mary, with the indifference of ignorance. Martha looked indignant.
“Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough,” she said outspokenly. “I’ve no patience with folk as sits an’ just stares at good bread an’ meat. My word! don’t I wish Dickon and Phil an’ Jane an’ th’ rest of ’em had what’s here under their pinafores.”
“Why don’t you take it to them?” suggested Mary.
“It’s not mine,” answered Martha stoutly. “An’ this isn’t my day out. I get my day out once a month same as th’ rest. Then I go home an’ clean up for mother an’ give her a day’s rest.”
Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.
“You wrap up warm an’ run out an’ play you,” said Martha. “It’ll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat.”
Mary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry.
“Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?”
