“Out on the blamed thieves!” cried Billy, astounded at such manners. He was going to strike the dog, but Will stopped him.
“Let un bide,” he said. “He didn’t take it, an’ since it weern’t for Phoebe, better him had it than the cat. He works for his livin’, she doan’t.”
“Such gwaines-on ’mongst dumb beasts o’ the field I never seen!” protested Billy; “an’ chickens worth what they be this spring!”
Presently conversation drifted into a channel that enabled the desperate, powerless man to use his brains and employ his muscles; while for the mother it furnished a fresh gleam of hope built upon faith. Billy it was who brought about this consummation. Led by Phoebe he ascended to the sick-room and bid Mrs. Blanchard “good-day.” She sat with the insensible child on her lap by the fire, where a long-spouted kettle sent forth jets of steam.
“This here jelly what I’ve brought would put life in a corpse I do b’lieve; an’ them butivul grapes, tu,—they’ll cool his fever to rights, I should judge.”
“He ’m past all that,” said Phoebe.
“Never!” cried the other woman. “He’m a bit easier to my thinkin’.”
“Let me take un then,” said the mother. “You’m most blind for sleep.”
“Not a bit of it. I’ll have forty winks later, after Doctor’s been again.”
Will here entered, sat down by his mother, and stroked the child’s little limp hand.