"Is it Eliza Jakes?"

He looked at her dazed, doubtful.

"An' who else should it be? Where's your memory gone, Richard
Hunton, and you not such a great age either? Where are you
stayin'?"

Shame overcame him; his lips trembled, his mild blue eyes filled
with tears. I told the tale as I had heard it, and Mrs Jakes's
indignation was good to see.

"Not keep you on 'alf a crown! Send you to the House! May the
Lord forgive them! You wouldn't eat no more than a fair-sized cat,
and not long for this world either, that's plain to see. No,
Richard Hunton, you don't go to the House while I'm above ground;
it'd make my good man turn to think of it. You'll come 'ome with
me and the little 'un there. I've my washin', and a bit put by for
a rainy day, and a bed to spare, and the Lord and the parson will
see I don't come to want."

She stopped breathless, her defensive motherhood in arms.

The old man said quaveringly, in the pathetic, grudging phrase of
the poor, which veils their gratitude while it testifies their
independence, "Maybe I might as well." He rose with difficulty,
picked up his bundle and stick, the small child replaced the kitten
in its basket, and thrust her hand in her new friend's.

"Then 'oo IS grandad tum back," she said.