Then with a tremor in the voice:

"Aunty, if you saw a little child in the street a starvin' to death for
some bread and butter wif jelly on it, wouldn't you give her some?"

I shook my head. Another pause, and then with little fat hands clasped,
and voice full of sobs, poor little Zay cried out, "Oh, Aunty, if you
saw a little girl starvin' to death for sponge cake, wouldn't you give
her some?"

"How could I, Zay, if the little girl's mamma had forbidden it?"

All her fortitude was gone. She burst into tears. She laid her head down
on the sofa and sobbed.

"Oh, oh! and they had fricasseed chicken, with Mary's nice toast under
it; and you have sponge-cake and wine-jelly; and I haven't nuffin; there
isn't one single butter cracker in the house!"

At this climax of misery the house resounded with her lamentations, in
which my tears would mingle; but fortunately the dear grand-parents soon
appeared to comfort their darling. And so, somehow, up on grandpa's lap
it became easier to see how naughty it was to annoy good old Mary, and
how ungrateful it was to wish to run away from home. And pardons were
begged and kisses were given, and the three little silver pieces crept
back into the tiny porte-monnaie, and Zay had some of Mary's nice toast
with lots of gravy, and a drum-stick and a wish-bone.

Zay is a young lady now, and I presume when she reads this story she