“Poor thing, poor thing, how deathly it looks! what great, wild eyes! How it stares at one!” exclaimed Mary Margaret, half sobbing.
“It’s half starved,” answered the nurse, looking down upon her burden with a callous smile; “it won’t feed. To-night will see the end on’t.”
Mary Margaret glanced at her own sleeping child, and then turned her brimming eyes upon the other.
“Give it here,” she said, “there’s enough for both—give him here.”
The nurse frowned and drew up her apron.
“The doctor must settle that. It’s not my business, Mrs. Dillon,” she said, harshly.
“The doctor! Well, where is he? Be quick and ask him, or let me.”
“When he comes in the morning will be time enough,” answered the nurse, preparing to move on.
“The morning! Why, the poor crathur’ll be gone afore that,” persisted the kind woman, stepping a pace forward, and supporting herself with difficulty. “Let me have it, I say!”
The nurse jerked her arm from the feeble grasp laid upon it, and harshly bade the woman return to her bed and mind her own business.