Louie had been forced to patch the house-linen as usual, mainly by the temporary confiscation of her Sunday hat, the one piece of decent clothing she possessed, and to which she clung with a feverish attachment--generally, indeed, sleeping with it beside her pillow.

But, though she was beaten, she was still seething with rebellion.

Her eyes were red, but her shaggy head was thrown back defiantly, and there was hysterical battle in the expression of her sharply-tilted nose and chin.
'Mind yorsel,' cried Hannah angrily, as the child put down her plate of porridge with a bang which made the housewife tremble for her crockery.
'What's t' matter wi yo, Louie ?' said Uncle Reuben, looking at her with some discomfort.

He had just finished the delivery of a long grace, into which he had thrown much unction, and Louie's manners made but an ill-fitting Amen.
'It's nasty!' said the child passionately.

'It's allus porridge--porridge--porridge--porridge--an I hate it--an it's bitter--an it's a shame! I wish I wor at Wigson's--'at I do!' Davy glanced up at his sister under his eyebrows.