“Well, ye see, I know who’s ’tis—’cos it’s mine.”
She turned sharply, staring at him open-mouthed.
“Well, I never!” she ejaculated.
“Yes,” said he in the same awkward way, “that ’ere’s my boy that I told ye of. Mrs. Barnes ’as ’ad the mindin’ of ’im—and I never knowed till now what sort o’ mindin’ it was—but that ’ere’s my boy.”
“Who’d ha’ thought ’e was such a little ’un?” murmured Jenny dreamily—“just as big as mine were.”
“Yes, ’e ain’t very old yet,” allowed the man, “only a year come Lord Mayor’s Day, and his mother died as ’e were born. She was but sickly, and ’e ain’t much. Not but what ’e might ha’ been better, but, Lord, a man don’t know ’ow a child have got to be minded, bless ye.”
The old defiance that had flashed back into Jenny’s face a minute ago had faded away again, and she was pale in the wan light.
“O’ course not,” she said commiseratingly, and yet with a quiet air of superiority.
“Ah, you know,” said he, with honest admiration. “But, there, I don’t suppose ye’d give a thought to such a thing as mindin’ of ’im?” he murmured sheepishly. He had lifted his eyes to her, but he drew them away again—while he waited.
“I’ve got my living to work for,” said she. “I shouldn’t ’ave time.”