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Another sound in a somewhat higher key was heard. Moses had simply modulated in his domestic symphony of labor from a major task to a minor one. As a change and refreshing recreation, Moses was allowed to turn the small wheat-mill. Ninety soul-stirring turns it required to empty the hopper once, and he must turn out enough flour for a batch of bread. His youthful soul was in revolt at such servitude. He had no sympathy to squander on the children of Israel in bondage vile. Making bricks for Pharoah was infantile amusement compared to his labor. “Yes, you shall be our dear little girl.” Mrs. Bennett took the forlorn child in her motherly arms and kissed her. “You’re tired and hungry, too, aren’t you?” “I guess so. What else?”.

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“This aint got poultry in it nor moosic nor nothin’,” complained one small youth. Moses made several further attempts to comply with the modest request of his teacher and at last each child held in grubby hands a book of quaint verses glorified by the tonic sol fah. Through the Stygian darkness of the loft loomed the figure of Mrs. Wopp, a white apron of huge dimensions indicating her presence. She made as though to descend the ladder. “She’ll be all right. May Nell and me—I—we took our lunch and went over to Potter’s pasture. Shoot! She’s waiting now! I hope the poor little kiddie—little girl—eats, don’t wait for me,—she an’ Bouncer.” Impressed with the importance of her task of instilling wisdom into the minds of her young listeners, Mrs. Wopp ignored this remark and continued the narrative into which she had already launched..