a large baby. Another, younger, but early-developed, as girls are in the
country, sat nearest the fire, a shawl half off her shoulders, her foot
rocking one of the cradles. There seemed no trace of coarseness in her
face, refined now by illness and days indoors; only an infinite
ignorance and bewilderment. She seemed not more than seventeen. The tone
of the Matron in speaking to her was not unkind, but had in it the
mixture of impatience and contempt, which sensible middle-aged women
have for foolish girls who can't look after themselves. There was, too,
unknown to herself, for she would have looked upon herself as a kind
woman, a slight feeling of satisfaction that, though the silly girl was
sheltered in this place and everyone was kind to her, she'd find out
what it meant to get herself in that state when she went outside. In the
meantime, being really kind, if sensible, she said.

"Keep your shawl over your shoulders, Maggie. You mustn't catch cold
your first day out of bed!"

"She doesn't look fit for much does she?" said the other young mother
contemptuously. "Ten days and then to be as washed out as that."

One of the old women, who had remained motionless, got up slowly and
stretched out her hand, pointing at the girl vindictively.

"That girl's next the fire! That was _my_ place before she come."

"Oh, you're all right, mother," said the Matron cheerfully, pushing her
gently back to her seat. The old woman mumbled to herself as she sank
back into the same stupor, in the midst of which she brooded on her
grievance. The other old woman began in a hard, high voice without
raising her head: