“Why it ain’t never Dil!”
Owny was an immense exclamation point in supreme amazement.
“Didn’t I tell yous! I was a-layin’ fer her. An’ she’s jes’ come out o’ the ’ospital.”
“Dil, you look nawful white.”
“We’ll make her hev red cheeks in a little, jes’ you wait. This feller’s Tom Dillon.”
Dilsey took a survey of her new home, and for the first moment her heart failed her. It looked so dreadfully dirty and untidy. The room was quite large, with an old lounge, a kitchen table, a trunk, and some chairs; a stove in the fireplace, and a cupboard with the door swinging open, but the dishes seemed to be mostly on the table.
“We sleep here,” explained Patsey, ushering her into the adjoining apartment. There was an iron bedstead in the centre of the room, and four bunks in two stories ranged against the side. “Ye see, we ain’t much at housekeepin’, but youse c’n soon git things straight,” and Patsey laughed to hide a certain shame and embarrassment. “We’ll clean house to-morrer, an’ hev things shinin’. An’ here’s a place—”
It was a little corner taken off the other room, and partly shut in by the closet. “Th’ ould woman used to sleep here—say, Dil, yous wouldn’t be afraid—tell ye, a feller offered me a lot o’ paper—wall paper, an’ we’ll make it purty as a pink.”
Dil had never seen “th’ ould woman,” and had no fear of her.
“It’ll be nice when we get it fixed,” she said cheerily.