To-day, the fifteenth of April, has been as grey and bleaching a day here as we never wish to meet again. Even the spears of the Narcissus are bruised and drooping.
XVIII
Mrs. Mutton, poor soul, has had a dead infant. It is perhaps scarcely to be wondered at, as she had another encounter with the water-butt shortly before the event; but she is as much “taken-to” as if she had been hoping to bring an heir-apparent into a realm of splendour. The doctor, to console her, asked her hadn’t she plenty already.
“I did think it unkind of him, Miss! It does seem ’ard! I did so seem to long for this one to live!”
We had a confidential conversation with the experienced matron who was ministering to her, and we mentioned the water-butt with some severity. But Mrs. Tosher would have none of this. Hers is a large mind philosophy:
“Ho! well, you see, Miss, it’s just as it takes them. I don’t say as Mutton isn’t a bit fond of his glass; but after all, Miss,” she smiled indulgently, “you must remember he was a bit upset-like. It isn’t as if there ’adn’t been a reason. When ’e ’eard there was going to be another, it turned ’im against ’er. Of course, poor feller! That was only to be expected like—”
“Good Heavens!”
Mrs. Tosher smiled more broadly than ever at our innocence.