“The pore dear,” said Mrs. Murphy tenderly, viewing Bess; “I’m thinkin’ we better care for her afore Dil wakes up. An’ she never havin’ had a bit o’ christenin’, along o’ Mrs. Quinn not belevin’ nothin’. I’ve heard her talk a way that wud set yer blood a-chill.”
“The Lord took the little ones in his arms and said, ‘Forbid them not,’ and I guess he won’t mind the christenin’. And this child’s been patient and cheerful beyond common. I think she’s had a lot of Christian grace unbeknownst. She’d look up with her sweet smile that almost broke your heart, when Dil would be takin’ her out. And how she stood everything—”
“Mrs. Quinn’s been not so savage as she used. ’Tain’t nat’rel for mothers to be so cruel. But ’twas last March, if I don’t disremember—you were not here then, Mrs. Minch—she made such a nawful ’ruction that the neighbors called in de cop, and nothin’ but her beggin’ off an’ sayin’ the children wud starve, an’ promisin’ on her bended knees, which she never uses fer a bit o’ prayer, saved her. An’ she don’t bang ’em about quite so bad since.”
“There was an awful time the other night.”
“Yes; that Owny’s too smart, an’ mebbe he would er banged her in a fair fight; but he cut stick, an’ hasn’t shown hide ner hair sence.”
Mrs. Murphy leaned over Dil, and uttered a benison in her ignorant Christianity.
“’Pears like they jist oughten to go togither. She looks like a ghost, poor thing.” Then she lifted Bess from the shabby wagon that had been her home so long, and brought her out on the lounge.
“Will ye look at them poor legs?” she said with a cry. “They do make yer heart bleed. She was a smart little thing, goin’ to school, whin it happened. The father oughter been hung fer it; fer it was he that did it, murderin’ by inches. An’ he beat Mrs. Quinn to a jelly. Wudden’t ye think now she’d had enough o’ rum, not to be goin’ the same road?”
Mrs. Minch sighed.
“It’s stuck everywhere, right in a body’s way, Mrs. Murphy. They’re taxin’ people for prisons and ’sylums and homes for orphans, when they haven’t the sense to shut up the saloons and gin-mills. Look at that Mrs. MacBride, smilin’ and making it pleasant for a hard-workin’ woman, havin’ a nice warm room for gossipin’ and such, and bein’ clever enough to make them run up a score, and get her money once a week. There’s no dancin’ nor carousin’; but it takes in the decentish sort of women, and turns ’em out as bad as the men. It’s the poor families that’s pinched and starved and set crazy. When I think of my boy growin’ up in it—but where’ll poor folks go? Saloons are all over. They fight for the chance to ruin folks.”