look quite pale; you are shivering in your thin clothes, and
autumn has really come. Oh, how cold the water is! I hope I shall
not be ill. But no, I must not be afraid of that. Give me a little
more, and you may have a sip too, but only a sip; you must not get
used to it, my poor, dear child." She stepped up to the bridge on
which the boy stood as she spoke, and came on shore. The water dripped
from the straw mat which she had bound round her body, and from her
gown. "I work hard and suffer pain with my poor hands," said she, "but
I do it willingly, that I may be able to bring you up honestly and
truthfully, my dear boy."

At the same moment, a woman, rather older than herself, came
towards them. She was a miserable-looking object, lame of one leg, and
with a large false curl hanging down over one of her eyes, which was
blind. This curl was intended to conceal the blind eye, but it made
the defect only more visible. She was a friend of the laundress, and
was called, among the neighbors, "Lame Martha, with the curl." "Oh,
you poor thing; how you do work, standing there in the water!" she
exclaimed. "You really do need something to give you a little
warmth, and yet spiteful people cry out about the few drops you take."
And then Martha repeated to the laundress, in a very few minutes,
all that the mayor had said to her boy, which she had overheard; and
she felt very angry that any man could speak, as he had done, of a
mother to her own child, about the few drops she had taken; and she
was still more angry because, on that very day, the mayor was going to
have a dinner-party, at which there would be wine, strong, rich
wine, drunk by the bottle. "Many will take more than they ought, but
they don't call that drinking! They are all right, you are good for
nothing indeed!" cried Martha indignantly.

"And so he spoke to you in that way, did he, my child?" said the
washer-woman, and her lips trembled as she spoke. "He says you have
a mother who is good for nothing. Well, perhaps he is right, but he
should not have said it to my child. How much has happened to me
from that house!"

"Yes," said Martha; "I remember you were in service there, and
lived in the house when the mayor's parents were alive; how many years
ago that is. Bushels of salt have been eaten since then, and people
may well be thirsty," and Martha smiled. "The mayor's great
dinner-party to-day ought to have been put off, but the news came
too late. The footman