floral oil painting

slice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not think I
was a beggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady, who had taken a
fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of his house, I
sat down and ate it.
I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in
the wood I have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my
rest broken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruders
passed near me more than once, and I had again and again to change
my quarters: no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. Towards
morning it rained; the whole of the following day was wet. Do not
ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as before, I
sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I starved; but once
did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw a little girl
about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough. 'Will you
give me that?' I asked.
She stared at me. 'Mother!' she exclaimed, 'there is a woman
wants me to give her these porridge.'
'Well, lass,' replied a voice within, 'give it her if she's a
beggar. T' pig doesn't want it.'