Mother Meg Part 12

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the woman.

"But I must make my bread first, for if I don't it will not have time to rise. When I have done that I'll bring the oatmeal down with me, and make it for them. Will you let me?"

The woman thanked her; but before Meg went up to her bread she requested that a saucepan of water might be put over the fire instead of the kettle, which the woman had already put on for the early dinner.

"Will you mind measuring the water into it?" asked Meg; "eight half-pints is what I want, and a good teaspoonful of salt."

Mrs. Blunt said she would, and Meg went away to her bread.

That did not take her half-an-hour, but when she came down the woman had done her best to smarten up her room. The little hurt child had had its hands washed, and was now fast asleep, and the woman herself looked three degrees fresher than when Meg left her.

"I have brought half-a-pound of oatmeal if you will accept it," she said, entering, with her clean cooking ap.r.o.n still on, and her neat hair uncovered by her hat.

"It's very kind, I'm sure," said the woman. "Now you must show me the right way, and then I shall know."

"Is the water boiling yet?" asked Meg, seating herself near the fire and peeping into the steaming saucepan.

"That it is! Don't it look like it?"

"Because it must boil," explained Meg, "or the oatmeal would sink to the bottom and burn."

"Oh, that's the reason?"

"Yes; and I've brought down my wooden spoon in case you had not got one.

The iron ones get so hot."

"Must it be stirred all the time?"

"Oh no, every now and then. See, I'm going to sprinkle in the oatmeal with my hand. If I put it in all at once it would fall into lumps, and children hate lumps! At least _I_ did when I was a child."

Mrs. Blunt stood by watching.

"And how much do ye pay a pound for it, Mrs. Seymour?"

"Twopence-halfpenny where Jem gets it."

"What do ye eat it with? I've heard tell of treacle, but I'm no hand at sweet things myself."

"No, more am I," said Meg. "Of course the best thing is a little milk; I dare say half a pint would do; but you might give them their choice of sugar."

Mrs. Blunt sighed. She had spent nearly all she had left on the baker's loaves which went so fast, and she hardly knew where the milk and sugar were to come from.

Meg guessed that, from the change in the woman's face from bright interest to despondency.

She thought for a moment, and then she said with some little hesitation--

"I wonder if the children would think me interfering if I were to bring them a little milk and sugar as a present?"

The woman turned away to the other room, nominally to fetch the baby, who was stirring, but really to get rid of a few tears. It was the way it was done, she told herself, that was so nice. She couldn't have let every one do her such a kindness.

"Mind you stir it while I am gone," said Meg, "because they won't take to _burnt_ porridge, for certain! You see it doesn't need much fire after once the saucepan boils."

When she came back with the pound of sugar and a pint of milk, the porridge had had its full half-hour, and was done.

"Now stand it on the hob, and if it simmers a little it will not hurt at all. Pour it out the last thing, and see if they do not like it better than bread, and feel more satisfied too. I've heard that it is the best thing you can have to make children grow."

"May I bring back your spoon and tell you how I got on with it?" asked Mrs. Blunt, already longing to taste what looked and smelt so good.

"Do; I shall be glad to see you," answered Meg. Then pausing with a sudden remembrance, she said, blus.h.i.+ng, "Do you remember those loving words of our Saviour to all who are weary and troubled, 'Cast thy burden upon the _Lord_, and He shall sustain thee'?"

"I've heard 'em before," answered the woman, "but I don't know much about it."

"We all can, just by taking Him at His word," said Meg gently, "and I don't know a burden that any one can have that will be too hard for Him to help in."

The woman looked in Meg's face to see if she really meant it, and the clear eyes she met were too earnest to be mistaken.

The woman wrung her hand and went back to the porridge without speaking.

When Meg had finished dinner, and was sitting down to her needle, there was a tap at the door, and on saying "Come in," Mrs. Blunt with her two babies appeared in the doorway.

"Well?" asked Meg, smiling.

"Well," said the woman, sinking into the seat Meg pushed forward, "when they came in they sniffed and looked about, and asked where the loaf was, and peeped into the milk-jug, and then they spied the saucepan, and came over as curious as anything to see what it was. I told 'em as it was a present to 'em, but they had no call to eat it unless they liked; and with that I poured out a little into the basins. Some of 'em was that hungry that they didn't think twice about it, and after a mouthful or two that they wasn't sure about, they finished what I gave 'em, and asked for more! That they did--all but one of 'em, and she turned up her nose at it and stuck to the bread."

"Did they finish it?" asked Meg.

"All but a bit I put by for their father. And they told me to say as they was much obliged, and hadn't had such a nice hot dinner I don't know when."

Meg was delighted. She got up to look into her little bread-pan, and the woman's eyes followed her curiously.

"I wish I could see ye do it," she said, "'cause I've heard as it's a deal cheaper."

"Of course it is," said Meg; "and if you have to stay at home to mind your babies, you could not use some of your time better. Mother used to say it went quite twice as far as baker's bread. I'll show you how to do it next time I bake. I don't do it every day, because we don't need it."

"Will you?" asked Mrs. Blunt earnestly.

"That I will. I'll let you know when to come."

The woman rose, and called her little girl from the window, where she had been absorbed in looking out from such an unusual height.

"She's better then?" asked Meg.

"Yes," answered her mother, undoing the bandage; "see, it ain't such a great place. How it did bleed to be sure!"

"I should keep it wet for the present," said Meg; "water softens things so."

"That's true," said the woman. Then hesitating, she added, "Mrs.

Seymour, you and your mother-in-law has been the only creatures since I came to London who has ever done me a kindness--I don't forgit it. The neighbours come in at times, and they mean to be kind; but one and another 'ull say a little word as 'ull make ye discontented with yer lot; and it ain't a bit of good. We've got to bear it, and makin' the worst of it don't mend it."