“Never say it while the child’s livin’! They ’m magical li’l twoads for givin’ a doctor the lie. You ’m wisht an’ weary along o’ night watchings.”
“Us must faace it. Ban’t no oncommon thing. Hope’s dead in me these many days; an’ dying now in Phoebe—dying cruel by inches. She caan’t bring herself to say ‘gude-by’ to the li’l darling bwoy.”
“What mother could? What do Mrs. Blanchard the elder say?”
“She plucks up ’bout it. She ’m awver hopeful.”
“Doan’t say so! A very wise woman her.”
Phoebe entered at this moment, and Mr. Blee turned from where he was standing by his basket.
“I be cheerin’ your gude man up,” he said.
She sighed, and sat down wearily near Will.
“I’ve brought ’e a chick for your awn eatin’ an’—”
Here a scuffle and snarling and spitting interrupted Billy. The hungry cat, finding a fowl almost under its nose, had leapt to the ground with it, and the dog observed the action. Might is right in hungry communities; Ship asserted himself, and almost before the visitor realised what had happened, poor Phoebe’s chicken was gone.