Even poor M'riar's love was very sweet and dear to her, and now, as
she was packing for departure the meagre garments of her wardrobe, her
scanty little fineries, the few small keepsakes she had hoarded of
the pitifully scarce bright days of her life (almost every one of
these a gift from her old father, token of a birth-or feast-day) it
was with a sudden burst of tears, a rushing, overwhelming feeling of
anticipatory loneliness, that she looked at the grimy little child who
was assisting her.

M'riar fell back on her haunches with a gasp. "Garn!" she cried.
"Garn, Miss! Don't yer dare to beller!"

A stranger might have thought she was impertinent, for "garn" on
cockney lips means "go on, now," in the slang of the United States,
and "beller" is not elegant, but Anna knew that she did not intend an
impudence.

"I feel very sad at leaving you, M'ri-arrr." There was pathos, now, in
the way Miss Anna rolled her r's.

"Sad! Huh! Hi thinks Hi'll die of it!" was the reply, accompanied by
more choked sobs and many snuffles. "An' yer won't heven tell me
w'ere yer hoff to!"

"I don't know, exactly, where we're off to M'ri-arrr. Somewhere very
far--oh, very far!"

M'riar, in spite of a firm resolution not to yield to tears, cast
herself upon the floor in anguish, and, as she kicked and howled,