“Nay, indeed, mother. How can I help fretting?”
“Don't tell me, Margaret. A nursing mother has no business to fret. She must turn her mind away from her grief to the comfort that lies in her lap. Know you not that the child pines if the mother vexes herself? This comes of your reading and writing. Those idle crafts befit a man; but they keep all useful knowledge out of a woman. The child must be weaned.”
“Oh, you cruel woman,” cried Margaret vehemently; “I am sorry I sent for you. Would you rob me of the only bit of comfort I have in the world? A-nursing my Gerard, I forget I am the most unhappy creature beneath the sun.”
“That you do not,” was the retort, “or he would not be the way he is.”
“Mother!” said Margaret imploringly.
“'Tis hard,” replied Catherine, relenting. “But bethink thee; would it not be harder to look down and see his lovely wee face a-looking up at you out of a little coffin?”
“Oh, Jesu!”
“And how could you face your other troubles with your heart aye full, and your lap empty?”
“Oh, mother, I consent to anything. Only save my boy.”
“That is a good lass, Trust to me! I do stand by, and see clearer than thou.”