“Yes,” she said in a new passionate way. “Yes, I am. I’m so hungry now that I could almost eat you. And it makes it worse to hear poor Becky. She’s hungrier than I am.”
Ermengarde gasped.
“Oh, oh!” she cried woefully. “And I never knew!”
“I didn’t want you to know,” Sara said. “It would have made me feel like a street beggar. I know I look like a street beggar.”
“No, you don’t—you don’t!” Ermengarde broke in. “Your clothes are a little queer—but you couldn’t look like a street beggar. You haven’t a street-beggar face.”
He had a wife and a large family in the wall, and they had had frightfully bad luck for several days. He had left the children crying bitterly, and felt he would risk a good deal for a few crumbs, so he cautiously dropped upon his feet.
“Come on,” said Sara; “I’m not a trap. You can have them, poor