Unfortunately there was another consent to be gained—the babe's; and he was more refractory than his mother.
“There,” said Margaret, trying to affect regret at his misbehaviour; “he loves me too well.”
But Catherine was a match for them both. As she came along she had observed a healthy young woman, sitting outside her own door, with an infant, hard by. She went and told her the case; and would she nurse the pining child for the nonce, till she had matters ready to wean him?
The young woman consented with a smile, and popped her child into the cradle, and came into Margaret's house. She dropped a curtsey, and Catherine put the child into her hands. She examined, and pitied it, and purred over it, and proceeded to nurse it, just as if it had been her own.
Margaret, who had been paralyzed at her assurance, cast a rueful look at Catherine, and burst out crying.
The visitor looked up. “What is to do? Wife, ye told me not the mother was unwilling.”
“She is not: she is only a fool. Never heed her; and you, Margaret, I am ashamed of you.”
“You are a cruel, hard-hearted woman,” sobbed Margaret.
“Them as take in hand to guide the weak need be hardish. And you will excuse me; but you are not my flesh and blood; and your boy is.”
After giving this blunt speech time to sink, she added, “Come now, she is robbing her own to save yours, and you can think of nothing better than bursting out a-blubbering in the woman's face. Out fie, for shame!”