“Well, now, Ann come in a moment ago to hunt up a la’ndress. The big folks where she lives have been lift in the lurch with ivry blissid thing sprinkled down. An’ can ye go an’ iron fer ’em? It’s a foine place. Two days in a week, an’ good pay. But the la’ndress has grown that sassy they had a reg’lar shindy this mornin’. If ye’ll jist go for wanst, they’ll all be moighty glad, for it’s a fine ironer ye are, Mrs. Quinn.”
“I’ll go back wid Ann.” Mrs. Quinn dropped the baby, and resumed her hood and shawl.
Bess shivered, and stretched out her arms to Dil as soon as the door closed.
“Oh, what should we have done if she had stayed at home! She looked at me so dreadful. And she would have shaked the very life out of me if she had taken hold of me. O Dil, don’t let her send me away!”
“If she should—if she did—I’d—I’d kill her!” and a fierce, desperate look came in the brown eyes. “O Bess dear, don’t cry so, don’t cry.”
“O Dil,” sobbed the child, “then you’d be jugged like daddy, but you wouldn’t kill her—you couldn’t, she’s so much bigger an’ stronger.”
“But I’d fight awful! And I wouldn’t stay. I’d run away, if I had to drown myself.”
“They cut people up in hospitals”—and there was an awesome sound in the frightened voice.
“Don’t, dear, don’t;” and the pleading was that of agony. She held Bess close—all her life was centred in this poor, maimed body. The babies might cry, the world might cease to be, but nothing should part them.
“She’ll be cross because there ain’t more babies. And to-day she knows. But the bank’s most all out. O Dil, s’pose something happened to—to him!”