She knew that girls of
that kind sometimes made enough to have their children nicely cared for;
and every other consideration disappeared in the vision of her baby,
cleaned and combed and rosy, and hidden away somewhere where she could
run in and kiss it, and bring it pretty things to wear. Anything,
anything was better than to add another life to the nest of misery on
the Mountain....
The old woman and the children were still sleeping when Charity rose
from her mattress. Her body was stiff with cold and fatigue, and she
moved slowly lest her heavy steps should rouse them. She was faint with
hunger, and had nothing left in her satchel; but on the table she saw
the half of a stale loaf. No doubt it was to serve as the breakfast of
old Mrs. Hyatt and the children; but Charity did not care; she had her
own baby to think of. She broke off a piece of the bread and ate
it greedily; then her glance fell on the thin faces of the sleeping
children, and filled with compunction she rummaged in her satchel for
something with which to pay for what she had taken.
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