He put his coarse brown thumb into the little hand which closed about it and clung to it, and sat watching her, unmindful of his visitor.
“She don't look what you'd call strong,” he went on, anxiously, “but you wouldn't say she was sick, would you?”
“I am afraid I should,” Miss Lady said gravely; “she looks very sick to me.”
“She does? Then I'd better git the doctor,” Phineas rose hurriedly, then sat down again. “But he never done the others no good. Maria always contended it was him that killed 'em. Ain't there somethin' we kin do? Don't you know somethin'?”
“Yes, I think I do, only you may not be willing to do it.”
“You try me. I'll do anything you say, Miss. If the Lord will only spare her—”
“It's not the Lord that's taking her,” Miss Lady cried impatiently, “it's you that are sending her, Mr. Flathers. Can't you see that you are killing your baby?”
He looked at her in amazed horror.
“Yes, you are!” went on Miss Lady fiercely, “you are selling her food to another baby; you are letting her mother work so hard that she can scarcely nourish herself. Just look at Mrs. Flathers! Anybody can see that if she had better food and less to do she'd be a different person.”
“Oh, Maria was real pretty onct,” Phineas said somewhat resentfully, “but when a man marries one of them slim little blondes he never knows what he's gittin'. They sort of shrink up on yer an' git faded an' stringy.”