The irate woman looked formidable as she rose, but Miss Nevins did not mean to be daunted.
“You may see the time when you will be glad of a friend, though you need not worry about his coming. I shall tell him you are not worth his interest. As for the child”—and her indignation sparkled in her eyes.
“The child wants none of his help, ye kin tell him. I kin look afther her mesilf.”
“Good-day,” and the visitor opened the door. Dil stepped back in the obscurity. The lady held up her fine cloth gown, and gave her nose a haughty wrinkle or two as she inhaled the stifling air once, and then did not breathe until she was in the court.
“Such a horrid hole!” she commented. “The child ought to be moved to a hospital—or perhaps she is well by this time. John is so easily taken in—his swans so often turn out to be geese. As if I would have given her any money, the impudent, blowsy thing! I know pretty well how far to trust that class! Though it’s rather funny,” and she smiled in the midst of her disgust; “they are always whining and pleading poverty, and will be abject enough for a quarter. And she was very high and mighty! I’ll write a good long letter to John about it, but I won’t trouble her ladyship again.”
Dil stood shaking with terror, and some moments elapsed before she had courage enough to open the door. She was in a degree prepared for a line of defence.
Her mother seized her by the arm, and fairly shouted at her,—
“Who was the man who kim to see ye, ye young huzzy?”
“Man! When did a man come? I don’t remember,” assuming surprise.
“I’ll help yer mem’ry thin wid that;” and Dil’s ears rang with the sound of the blow.