t down with a sigh of joy. At such times stories were told by
installments, things of a satisfying nature were either produced and
eaten or hastily tucked into pockets to be disposed of at night, when
Becky went upstairs to her attic to bed.

"But I has to eat 'em careful, miss," she said once; "'cos if I leaves
crumbs the rats come out to get 'em."

"Rats!" exclaimed Sara, in horror. "Are there RATS there?"

"Lots of 'em, miss," Becky answered in quite a matter-of-fact manner.
"There mostly is rats an' mice in attics. You gets used to the noise
they makes scuttling about. I've got so I don't mind 'em s' long as
they don't run over my piller."

"Ugh!" said Sara.

"You gets used to anythin' after a bit," said Becky. "You have to,
miss, if you're born a scullery maid. I'd rather have rats than
cockroaches."

"So would I," said Sara; "I suppose you might make friends with a rat
in time, but I don't believe I should like to make friends with a
cockroach."

Sometimes Becky did not dare to spend more than a few minutes in the
bright, warm room, and when this was the case perhaps only a few words
could be exchanged, and a small purchase slipped into the old-fashioned
pocket Becky carried under her dress skirt, tied round her waist with a
band of tape. The search for and discovery of satisfying things to eat
which could be packed into small compass, added a new interest to
Sara's existence. When she drove or walked out, she used to look into
shop windows eagerly. The first time it occurred to her to bring home
two or three little meat pies, she felt that she had hit upon a
discovery. When she exhibited them, Becky's eyes quite sparkled.

"Oh, miss!" she murmured. "Them will be nice an' fillin.' It's
fillin'ness that's best. Sponge cake's a 'evenly thing, but it melts
away like--if you understand, miss. These'll just STAY in yer
stummick."

"Well," hesitated Sara, "I don't think it would be good if they stayed
always, but I do believe they will be satisfying."

They were satisfying--and so were beef sandwiches, bought at a
cook-shop--and so were rolls and Bologna sausage. In time, Becky began
to lose her hungry, tired feeling, and the coal box did not seem so
unbearably heavy.

However heavy it was, and whatsoever the temper of the cook, and the
hardness of the work heaped upon her shoulders, she had always the
chance of the afternoon to look forward to--the chance that Miss Sara
would be able to be in