“Dead! The old, poor man! And you are alone?”
“Yes, Zyp.”
She broke down and wept long and sadly.
“He was good to me,” she moaned, “and I requited his kindness ill. And now I come to worry you in your unhappiness.”
“You came to lighten it with a glimpse of the old sweet nature—you and your pretty baby here.”
“Do you think her pretty, Renny? He would have been fond of her, and he’s gone. What a world of death and misery!”
“Now the mill is no place for you at present. Old Peggy is dead, too, and gone to her judgment. In a few days the house will be quit of mourning. Then you must all three come and live with me there, and we’ll make out life in company.”
She sat clasping her little girl and staring at me, her lips parted, as she listened breathlessly.
“That would be good,” she whispered. “Do you hear, baby? Mumby and Renna will lie down at last and go to sleep.”
The child pressed her cheek to her mother’s and put her short arms about her neck with a sympathetic sigh. Her lot, I think, had been no base contrast with that of children better circumstanced. She was dressed even now as if from the fairy queen’s wardrobe, though Zyp’s poor clothes were stained and patched in a dozen places.