the great rocks I had sometimes slept under when I was with the gipsies.  Only there were windows in the rock, out of which looked faces, and I got looking back at one of these faces and the face looked at me, and I liked it and got up on my knees and held up my arms, and the face drew back out of sight, and I felt very sorry and cried and almost laid down again.  I seemed so alone and hurt and hungry.  But the children—­there were crowds of children—­wouldn’t let me.  They got in a ring and pulled at me, and some one cried:  ‘Big cheeks is coming!  Big cheeks will eat her up,’ and I was angry and got up on my feet.  But I couldn’t walk; I screamed when I tried to, which frightened the children, and they all ran away.  But I didn’t fall; an arm was round me, a good, kind arm, and though I didn’t see the face of the woman who helped, for she had her head wrapped up in an old shawl, I felt that it was the same which had looked out of the window at me, and went willingly enough when she began to draw me toward the house and up the first flight of stairs, though I could hardly help screaming every time my foot touched the ground.  At the top of the first flight I stopped; I could go no further.  The woman heard me pant, and pushing the covering from her eyes, she turned my face towards the light and looked at it.  I thought she wanted to see if I was strong enough to go on, but that wasn’t it at all, for in a minute I heard her say, in a voice so sweet I thought I had never heard the like, ’Yes, you’re pretty; I want a pretty girl to stay with me and go about selling my things.  I love pretty girls; I never was pretty myself.  Will you stay with me if I take you up to my room and take care of you?  I’ll be good to you, little duckling, everybody about here will tell you that; everybody but the children, they don’t like me.’  I moaned, but it was from happiness.  It seemed too good to hear that cooing voice in my ear.  I thought of my mother—­a dream—­and my arms went up as they had in the street below.  ’I will stay,’ I said.  She caught my hands and that is all I remember till I found myself in bed, with my ankle bound up and a gentle hand smoothing my hair.  It was a month before I walked again.  All the time this woman tended me, but always from behind.  I did not see her face—­not well—­only by glimpses and then only partly, for the shawl was always over her head, covering everything but her eyes and mouth.  These were small, the smallest I ever saw, little pig eyes, and little screwed up mouth; but the look of them was kindly and that was all I cared about then; that and her talk, which made me cry one minute and laugh the next.  I have never cried so much or laughed so much in my life as I did that one month.  She told such sad things and she told such funny ones.  She made me glad to see her come in and sorry to see her go out.  She let no one else come near me.  I did not care; I liked her too well.  I was never tired of listening to her praises and she praised me a great deal.