oke the fire
with fury.

"It's enoof t' sicken t' cat!"

She snatched the kettle that stood upon the hob; she stamped out to
the scullery and re-filled it at the tap. She returned, stamping, and
set it with violence upon the fire.

She tore out of the cupboard a teapot, a cup and a saucer, a loaf on
a plate and a jar of dripping. Still with violence (slightly modulated
to spare the comparative fragility of the objects she was handling)
she dashed them one by one upon the table where Essy, with elbows
planted, propped her head upon her hands and wept.

Mrs. Gale sat down herself in the chair facing her, and kept one
eye on the kettle and the other on her daughter. From time to time
mutterings came from her, breaking the sad rhythm of Essy's sobs.

"Eh dear! I'd like t' knaw what I've doon t' ave _this_ trooble!"--

--"'Tis enoof t' raaise yore pore feyther clane out of 'is graave!"--

--"'E'd sooner 'ave seed yo in yore coffin, Assy."--

She rose and took down the tea-caddy from the chimney-piece and flung
a reckless measure into the tea-pot.

"Ef 'e'd 'a been a-livin', 'E'd a _killed_ yo. Thot's what 'e'd 'a
doon."

As she said it she grasped the kettle and poured the boiling water
into the tea-pot.

She set the tea-pot before Essy.

"There's a coop of tae. An' there's bread an' drippin'. Yo'll drink it
oop."

But Essy, desolated, shook her head.

"Wall," said Mrs. Gale. "I doan' want ter look at yo. 'T mak's mae
seek."

As if utterly revolted by the sight of her daughter, she turned from
her and left the kitchen by the staircase door.

Her ponderous stamping could be heard going up the staircase and
on the floor overhead. There was a sound as of drawers opening and
shutting and of a heavy box being dragged from under the bed.

Essy poured herself out a cup of tea, tried to drink it, choked and
pushed it from her.

She was still weeping when her mother came to her.

Mrs. Gale came softly.

All alone in the room overhead she had evidently been doing something
that had pleased her. The ghost of a smile still haunted her bleak
face. She carried on her arm tenderly a pile of little garments.

These she began to spread out on the table before Essy, having first
removed the tea-things.

"There!" she said. "'Tis the lil cleathes fer t' baaby. Look, Assy,
my deear--there's t' lil rawb, wi' t' lil slaves, so pretty--an' t'
flanny petticut--an' t' lil vasst--see. 'Tis t' lil things I maade fer
'ee a