“If I had shown myself a sensitive dwarf to your false friend,” pursued the little woman, shaking her head at me, with reproachful earnestness, “how much of his help or good will do you think I should ever have had? If little Mowcher (who had no hand, young gentleman, in the making of herself) addressed herself to him, or the like of him, because of her misfortunes, when do you suppose her small voice would have been heard? Little Mowcher would have as much need to live, if she was the bitterest and dullest of pygmies; but she couldn’t do it. No. She might whistle for her bread and butter till she died of Air.”

Miss Mowcher sat down on the fender again, and took out her handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.