“Now,” said Dil, “I’m going to set thim in your room. I’ll push you in there, and you can make believe you are in a truly garden. For whin the folks come in, they’ll be beggin’ thim, an’ they’ll give thim to the babies to tear up. I couldn’t abear to have thim hurted. An’ babies don’t care!”
“They can go out every day and see things.” Bess clasped her arms about Dil’s neck, and kissed her fervently.
The room was very, very small. Dil’s cot stood along the wall; and there were two or three grocery boxes piled up to make a sort of closet, with a faded curtain across it. There was just room to push in the carriage by the window. It was Bess’s sofa by day and bed by night. The bowl was placed on the window-sill. Now and then a breath of air found its way in.
Mrs. Finn and Mrs. Brady came in for their babies. Dil stirred the fire and put on the kettle, then washed the potatoes and set them to cook. Now and then she ran in to smile at Bess.
“It’s just like heaven!” cried the little wraith.
Alas, if this was a foretaste of heaven! This close, fetid air, and the wet clothes, for they were put up at all hours. Pure air was one of the luxuries Barker’s Court could not indulge in, though we talk of it being God’s gift to rich and poor alike.
When the two rough, begrimed boys rushed in there was only Jamsie left; and he was in an uneasy sleep, with his thumb in his mouth, so Dil held up her hand to entreat silence. The boys lived so generally in the street, and did so much shrewd foraging, that they looked well and hearty, if they had the air of prospective toughs.
“I’ve put the last bit of bread in the milk for Bess’s supper, and you must wait until mother comes,” said Dil, with her small air of authority.
The boys grumbled. Little Dan was quick to follow Owen’s lead, who said roughly,—
“O yes, de kid must have everything! An’ she’ll never be good fer nothin’ wid dem legs. No use tryin’ to fatten her up wid de luxuries o’ life!” and the boy’s swagger would have done credit to his father.