"I wish you all luck, Lucy. Not that it's such a
condescension, oh, by no means. The doctor said the bedrooms were very
shabby in their furniture, and such a meal as those poor girls were
eating for breakfast. He said his heart quite ached for them. Nothing
but stale bread, and the name of butter, and tea like water bewitched.
He said he'd rather never have a child than see her put down to such
fare."
"Dear, dear, you don't say so," answered Mrs. Meadowsweet. "Bee, my
love, we must have those nice girls constantly to the Gray House, and
feed them up all we can. I'm very sorry to hear your news, Jessie. But
I'm afraid we can't wait to talk any longer now. Nothing could have been
more affable than Mrs. Bertram's letter, sent down by special messenger,
and written in a most stylish hand."
"You haven't got it in your pocket, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Morris.
"To be sure I have. You'd like to see it; well, here it is. You can let
me have it back to-morrow. Now, good-bye. Drive on, Davis."
The cab jumbled and rattled over the paving stones, and Mrs. Meadowsweet
lay back against the cushions, and fanned her hot face.
"I wonder if it's true about those poor girls being so badly fed," she
inquired of her daughter. "Dear, dear, and there's nothing young things
want like generous living.
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