“There wasn’t any man since the wan that sang a long whiles ago. Mrs. Murphy knew. She said he was a Moody an’ Sankey man, an’ that they do be goin’ round singin’ and prayin’. An’ they all stood in the hall, the women about. Mrs. Murphy kin tell you.”
Mrs. Quinn was rather nonplussed.
“What did he gev ye?”
“Nothin’,” sobbed Dil. “It was poor old Mrs. Bolan that had the money.”
“Not a cint?” She took Dil by the shoulder. “Dil Quinn, I don’ no whether to belave yer; but if he’d gev ye any money, an’ ye’d bin such a deceivin’ little thafe, I’d break ivery bone in yer mean little body. Howld yer tongue! I ain’t done nothin’ but ast a civil question.”
Dil tried to stop sobbing. Her mother was in a hurry to get out, or matters might have been worse.
“Stop yer snivelin’,” commanded her mother. “But if I hear of any more men singin’ round, I’ll make ye wish yer never been born.”
The baby cried at this juncture, and Dil took it up. Mrs. Quinn went out, and there would be peace until midnight.
Bess sat in the carriage, wild-eyed and ghostly, trembling in every limb.
“It was a norful lie!” sobbed Dil. “But if I’d told her, she’d killed me! He wouldn’t a done such a thing; but nobody’d darst to tackle him, an’ rich people don’t beat an’ bang.”