“But you were to have brought the clothes home yesterday,” said George, annoyed by this intrusion upon the precious moments which remained before his brother’s departure. “Usually you are more punctual, Mrs. Dillon.”
“True for ye there,” answered our old friend, Mary Margaret, while a crimson blush reddened her good-natured face.
“But do ye see, gintlemen, I’ve been away for a bit, looking after a darlint of a little boy as is precious to me as my own flesh and blood, though he is a gintleman now entirely—for all he was born side by side wid Terry in the hospital—more blame to them as sent his poor mother there!”
There was something in this speech that made the brothers start. Their own minds had been so occupied by recollections of the hospital, that the subject, brought upon them so suddenly, and from this unexpected source, seemed like a revelation.
“Of what child do you speak, Mrs. Dillon?” inquired George, while Louis stood with his wild eyes fixed upon her.
“Why, of me own little nursling, to be sure, as was born the week after little Terry, and took the bit and sup wid him, side by side, after his poor dead mother was took out of the ward in her pine coffin.”
“And how old is little Terry?” asked Louis, abruptly.
“How old is little Terry? Faix, and I can tell ye to a day, yer honors,” said the washerwoman, counting the plump fingers of one hand, which she held up with the thumb protruding. “D’ ye see these? Just add two months an’ ten days to that same, and ye have little Terry, the spalpeen, all to nothing, yer honors!”
The young men turned their eyes from the plump hand and gazed with a sort of awe upon each other. A rapid calculation ran through the mind of each. Mary Margaret had pointed out the day upon which Louisa’s last letter was dated.
“And what became of the mother, that her little boy should have been given to you?” inquired George, almost holding his breath with anxiety.