Mary Margaret hesitated, and looked wistfully at Catharine, who returned the glance with a look of gentle submission that went to the poor woman’s heart.
“I’ll come to-morrow, and bring both the babies with me, niver fear,” she said, struggling to keep back her tears; “and remember, darlint, if the worst comes to the worst, there’s the shanty and the childer, where ye’ll be welcome as the blissed sunshine every day of the year. So don’t be down-hearted, or put upon by that cowld-hearted lady, or the likes of her, any how.”
The latter portion of this speech was delivered in a whisper; and wringing Catharine’s hand, Mary Margaret went out, with some new ideas of professional philanthropy that puzzled her honest brain not a little. A motherly old woman passed her in the hall. She was dressed in black silk and had an old-fashioned Methodist bonnet on, which varied but slightly from those worn by strict Quakers, and which are lost sight of now, save by a few old primitive Wesleyans, like the woman we are introducing.
The old woman stood aside, to allow the Irish woman a free passage, and looked after her with a kind, genial smile, which almost asked if the great-hearted Christian could do the Irish woman any good.
Mary Margaret understood the look and answered it at once.
“If ye could only say a kind word for the young crathur in yonder now,” she whispered, confidentially, “she’s as innocent as a baby, and so handy about house; if ye could only take her home with yoursel’ now, it’d be like letting the blissed sunshine into yer door.”
“Who is it?” questioned Mrs. Barr,—“a child?”
“Almost, and yet she’s been the mother of a child.”
“Poor thing!” said the old lady.
“You may well say that—but she’s the innocentest crathur in the wide world. So please believe everything she says. It’s true, every word of it.”