"If ye cud jist spare us a ha'p'orth ov milk to keep th' life in th' chile fur th' night?" he pleaded.
"It wudn't be a thimbleful if I had it, Jamie, but I haven't—we haave childther ov our own, ye know, an' life is life!"
"Aye, aye," he said, "I know, I know," and shuffled out again. Back to the house he went. He lifted the latch gently and tiptoed in. Anna was rocking the child to sleep. He went softly to the table and took up a tin can and turned again toward the door.
Anna divined his stealthy movement. She was beside him in an instant.
"Where are you going, Jamie?" He hesitated. She forced an answer.
"Jamie," she said in a tone new to her, "there's been nothing but truth and love between us; I must know."
"I'm goin' out wi' that can to get somethin' fur that chile, Anna, if I haave t' swing fur it. That's what's in my mind an' God help me!"
"God help us both," she said.
He moved toward the street. She planted herself between him and the door.
"No, we must stand together. They'll put you in jail and then the child and I will die anyway. Let's wait another day!"