“Will you help a poor woman in distress, kind gentlemen?” she said.
“Oh, come, my good woman,” said Bertie, “your memory is a short one. Why, you made enough yesterday to keep the wolf from the door for some days.”
The woman looked at him keenly, but not angrily.
“I didn’t ask for money for myself,” she said; “it’s my child—my little girl,” and she drew the shawl a few inches from the child’s face.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Bertie, in quite a different voice.
Faradeane leaned against the gate, and looked on with an absent air of preoccupation.
“She’s ill, sir,” replied the gypsy. “She was took ill yesterday. I don’t know what ails her. It’s my only one, kind gentlemen, and——” She stopped and looked at Faradeane. “Ah! it’s hard to understand a mother’s feelings.”
“I dare say,” said Bertie, gently. “But why do you keep her out in the open air? The day is chilly, and you earned plenty of money yesterday to find shelter for her.”
The gypsy shook her head slowly.
“That’s gone, sir,” she said, with that quiet resignation which women acquire, Heaven help them!