''Why, to see your face,'' she answers. ''To see if you turned out handsome as your mother.''
''I have twenty mothers,'' I say at that; ''and am handsomer than any of them.''
The woman has stopped before a door. ''Handsome is as hand-
some does,'' she says. ''I mean your proper mother, that died. These were her rooms, and are now to be yours.''
She takes me into the chamber beyond, and then into the dressing-room that joins it. The windows rattle as if battered by fists. They are chill rooms even in summer, and it is winter now. I go to the little fire—I am too small to see my face in the glass above—and stand and shiver.
''Should have kept your mittens,'' says the woman, seeing me breathe upon my hands. ''Mr Inker''s daughter shall have those.'' She takes my cloak from me, then draws the ribbons from my hair and brushes it with a broken comb. ''Tug all you like,'' she says as I pull away. ''It shall only hurt you, it shan''t harm me. Why, what a business those women made of your head! Anyone would have supposed them savages. How I''m to see you neat, after their work, I can''t say. Now, look here.'' She reaches beneath the bed. ''Let''s see you use your chamber-pot. Come along, no foolish modesty. Do you think I never saw a little girl lift up her skirts and piddle?''
She folds her arms and watches me, and then she wets a cloth with water and washes my face and hands.