Part 12 (2/2)
”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.”
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