was still seething with rebellion. Her eyes were red, but her
shaggy head was thrown back defiantly, and there was hysterical
battle in the expression of her sharply-tilted nose and chin.

'Mind yorsel,' cried Hannah angrily, as the child put down her
plate of porridge with a bang which made the housewife tremble for
her crockery.

'What's t' matter wi yo, Louie?' said Uncle Reuben, looking at her
with some discomfort. He had just finished the delivery of a long
grace, into which he had thrown much unction, and Louie's manners
made but an ill-fitting Amen.

'It's nasty!' said the child passionately. 'It's allus
porridge--porridge--porridge--porridge--an I hate it--an it's
bitter--an it's a shame! I wish I wor at Wigson's--'at I do!'

Davy glanced up at his sister under his eyebrows. Hannah scanned
her niece all over with a slow, observant scrutiny, as though she
were a dangerous animal that must be watched. Otherwise Louie might
have spoken to the wall for all the effect she produced. Reuben,
however, was more vulnerable.

'What d' yo want to be at Wigson's for?' he asked. 'Yo should
be content wi your state o' life, Louie. It's a sin to be
discontented--I've tellt yo so many times.'

'They've got scones and rhubarb jam for tea!' cried the child,
tumbling the news out as though she were bursting with it. 'Mrs.
Wigson, she's allus makin em nice things. She's kind, she is--she's