"Prettier than mine," Milly replied. "But if it wasn't that I should go mad if I was to lose her, I wish she would die! It would be better for her, but I think it would be worse for me. What's that in your hand?"
It was Little Peter's stone heart, which Grif had held all the while.
"It's Little Peter's heart," he said.
"Of course it is; I remember it now. It belonged to his mother."
"Where is she?" asked Grif, eagerly, for this was the first time he had heard of Little Peter's mother.
"She died two years ago in the hospital."
"Did you know her, Milly?"
"I went with a friend to see her when she was dying. She was a Welsh woman. She put the heart round Little Peter's neck when we took him to wish her good-bye, for the doctor said she would die before night."
"What did she die of, Milly?" The subject was full of interest to Grif.
"Broken heart. Somebody played her false, as usual. I shan't die of a broken heart--not I! Drink will be my death--the sooner the better! Hush! There's Jim. Who else? The Tenderhearted Oysterman."