ssingness of it told on the child's spirits more
than anyone knew.

She worked very hard indeed at this time. The vicar had given them
the rooms rent-free; but Huldah's basket-making had to supply almost
everything else--food, clothing, lights, and many an extra--needed
for Aunt Emma. Their rooms were few, and there was not much in them,
but all that had to be done fell to Huldah to do. Emma Smith never
put her hand to anything, not even to wash a dish, cook a meal, or
make her own bed. She needed a great deal of waiting on, too, and
was very fretful. She did not like to be left alone, even while
Huldah went out to do the errands; and on the days when the poor
child had to go to Belmouth to deliver her work, or get more raffia,
Aunt Emma had always a very bad turn, and an attack of melancholy.

It was quite pathetic to see the way she clung to the little waif she
had treated so cruelly when she had her in her power. She wanted no
one but Huldah now, and she wanted her always. She loved her
brightness and cheerfulness. When Huldah laughed and sang she was
quite content, but the moment she was sad or quiet, Aunt Emma would
grow peevish and uneasy.

"You'm fretting because you've got to stay here with me, I know.
You'm longing to be back with that Mrs. Perry. I know it's 'ard to
'ave to live with a poor miserable creature like me, and I wonder you
can bear it as well as you do."

Then she would burst into tears. It never occurred to her that she
might try to make it less miserable for Huldah, by trying to be
cheerful herself sometimes.

"I'm not fretting. I love taking care of you," pleaded poor Huldah.
"I was only trying to think how to make a new-shaped basket that
people might take a fancy to. Shall I read to you, Aunt Emma?"

Emma Smith loved being read to, and hour after hour Huldah spent over
a book when she knew she ought to be at her basket-making. To try to
make up the time, she got up at four or five in the morning, but in
the winter that meant burning oil, and they could not afford that.
Then one day it occurred to her to sing instead of reading, and after
that she found things easier, for she could sing while she worked.

It was a strange medley of songs that echoed through the rooms in the
thin child-like voice. "Home, sweet Home," "Father, dear Father,
come Home," "God save the King," "The Old Folks at Home," were some
of their favourites, and if the words and air were not always
cor