“That’s just what I told Louizy,” Huldy responded. “I said that’s what they’d say; but Louizy ’s dretful cut up.”
Springer moved uneasily or impatiently in his seat, so that the old wooden chair creaked under the weight of his substantial person.
“I know she is,” he said; “if I could afford it, I’d send the child to her folks myself; but I can’t, and I don’t see but the girl’s got to go to ’Lizy Ann Betts. Perhaps she won’t be so hard on her.”
“Hard on her,” sniffed Huldy; “she’ll just kill her; that’s all.”
At the word a wretched-looking woman pushed into the kitchen as if she had been listening at the door. She held out before her a right hand withered and shriveled by fire.
“Oh, Mr. Springer,” she broke out, tears running down her cheeks, “don’t send my Nellie to be bound to that woman! She’s all I’ve got in the world; and she never wanted till I was burned. Send her to my folks in Connecticut and they’ll treat her as their own.”
She sank down suddenly as if her strength failed, and sat stiff and despairing, with eyes of wild entreaty.
“It’s hard, I know,” Springer answered awkwardly, “but Nellie’ll be near you, and she would n’t be in Connecticut. ’Lizy Ann Betts ain’t a bad-hearted woman. She’ll do well by the child, I hope.”
“She’ll do well?” the mother cried shrilly, raising herself with sudden vehemence. “Did she do well by the last girl was bound to her from this farm? Did n’t she kill her?”