"Aye, aye, acushla, I know yer hope's in the boy, but don't give up. We'll fight it out together if th' worst comes to th' worst. The boy'll live, shure he will!"
He could not bear the agony on her face. It distracted him. He went out and sought solitude on a pile of stones back of the house. There was no solitude there, nor could he have remained long if there had been. He returned and drawing a stool up close beside her he sat down and put an arm tenderly over her shoulder.
"Cheer up, wee girl," he said, "our ship's comin' in soon."
"If we can only save him!" she said, pointing to the cradle.
"Well, we won't cry over spilt milk, dear—not at laste until it's spilt."
"Ah," she exclaimed, "I had such hopes for him!"
"Aye, so haave I, but thin again I've thought t' myself, suppose th' wee fella did get t' be kind-a quality like, wudn't he be ashamed ov me an' you maybe, an' shure an ingrate that's somethin' is worse than nothin'!"
"A child born in pure love couldn't be an ingrate, Jamie; that isn't possible, dear."
"Ah, who knows what a chile will be, Anna?"
The child awoke and began to cry. It was a cry for food. There was nothing in the house; there had been nothing all that day. They looked at each other. Jamie turned away his face. He arose and left the house. He went aimlessly down the street wondering where he should try for something to eat for the child. There were several old friends whom he supposed were in the same predicament, but to whom he had not appealed. It was getting to be an old story. A score of as good children as his had been buried. Everybody was polite, full of sympathy, but the child was losing his vitality, so was the mother. Something desperate must be done and done at once. For the third time he importuned a grocer at whose shop he had spent much money. The grocer was just putting up the window shutters for the night.