“Let me alone,” he said, clenching his tiny fist, and stamping fiercely upon the sofa-cushion, “I don’t want beggar-women to touch me!”
“Beggar!” cried the woman, with a shrill laugh. “Ah! that’s a nice joke, my darling. Beggar! I’ve half a mind to shake you where you stand. Beggar! Oh! it’s a sweet child. Of course it’s your own, ma’am?”
This question was put with startling abruptness, accompanied by a sharp, scrutinizing glance, that drove the blood from the fair cheek it searched.
“Mine, of course. Yes, of course,” faltered the lady, drawing the boy toward her with both arms. “Mine, yes, yes, whose else? What do you mean, woman?”
Her voice was sharp with anxiety. Her soft eyes turned a startled gaze on that grim face, which looked to her like that of a fiend.
“Oh! of course, why not? he looks like you, don’t he? Of course, who doubts it?” mocked the woman.
“Go away, go away, beggar-woman,” cried the child, clinging to his mother’s neck with one arm, and clenching his right hand with puny courage. “Don’t look at my mamma so. Don’t speak to her. Go away, or I’ll, I’ll—yes, I will—so there now!”
Here the little hero burst into tears, and hid his face upon his mother’s shoulder.
“What do you want, woman?” inquired the young matron, rising with the boy in her arms. “If you wish to see the gentleman of the house, he is engaged. I do not live here. Let me pass.”
“Let me have another look at the darling, just a peep into his eyes, I’m so fond of children,” said the woman, with wheedling softness, that was far more disgusting than her rudeness had been. “I want him to know me, bless his pretty face!”