They huddled inside the storm door—two children in ragged outgrown coats.

"Any old papers, lady?”

I was busy. I wanted to say no—until I looked down at their feet. Thin little sandals, sopped with sleet.

"Come in and I´ll make you a cup of hot cocoa.”

There was no conversation. Their soggy sandals left marks upon the hearthstone. I served them cocoa and toast with jam to fortify against the chill outside. Then I went back to the kitchen and started again on my household budget.

The silence in the front room struck through to me. I looked in. The girl held the empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy asked in a flat voice, "Lady . . . are you rich?"

“Am I rich? Mercy, no!"

I looked at my shabby slipcovers. The girl put her cup back in its saucer—carefully.

“Your cups match your saucers."

Her voice was old, with a hunger that was not of the stomach. They left then, holding their bundles of papers against the wind. They hadn´t said thank you. They didn´t need to. They had done more than that. Plain blue pottery cups and saucers. But they matched.

I tested the potatoes and stirred the gravy. Potatoes and brown gravy, a roof over our heads, my man with a good steady job—these things matched, too.

I moved the chairs back from the fire and tidied the living room. The muddy prints of small sandals were still wet upon my hearth. I let them be. I want them there in case I ever forget again how very rich I am.