And the old woman stood aside in the doorway as the post-mistress—the pink of respectability in rusty black—came slowly up the steps.
“Pleased to see ye yerself again,” said she, in tones that were meant to be kind.
“Thank you,” replied Lucy curtly. “I’m not sure as I know what that is.”
Miss Hearn stared. She was forced to suppose that illness had affected Mrs. Wood’s brain, for a mere laundress could never dare be impertinent to her!
“Well, anyways on the road to work again,” said she conciliatingly. “And I’ve brought ye a nice job,” she went on, with a patronizing shake of her greasy black ringlets. "Pore old Mrs. Collins ’ave gone at last"—this with a pious closing of the lids over the little black eyes—“so I’ve asted the missus at the ‘’Ill ’ouse’ to take ye on i’stead.”
“Thank ye; I ain’t fit for no more work yet,” said the widow ungraciously.
“Nonsense!” declared the post-mistress authoritatively. “Ye’re in a good way to be better nor ever ye’ve been in yer life, ain’t she, ma’am?” turning to the old housekeeper, who still stood aside.
“The master do say she ’ave pulled through wonderful,” allowed the person addressed.
“I ain’t never goin’ to be the same no more,” declared Lucy obstinately, setting her lips tightly, and drawing her skinny little body together with her own petulant movement.
“Ye ’aven’t got no business to talk so,” persisted the post-mistress sharply. “Ye can be what you choose.”