“I was gwaine to write first moment I heard ’e was home. An’ I wish I had, for I caan’t tell ’e what I feel. To think of ’e searchin’ the wide world for such a good-for-nought! I thank you for your generous gudeness, Martin. I’ll never forget it—never. But I wasn’t worth no such care.”
“Not worth it! It proved the greatest, bitterest grief of all my life—but one—that I couldn’t find you. We grew by cruel stages to think—to think you were dead. The agony of that for us! But, thank God, it was not so. All at least is well with you now?”
“All ban’t never well with men an’ women. But I’m more fortunate than I deserve to be, and can make myself of use. I’ve lived a score of years since we met. An I’ve comed back to find’t is a difficult world for those I love best, unfortunately.”
Thus, in somewhat disjointed fashion, Chris made answer.
“Sit a while and speak to me,” replied Martin. “The laddie can play about. Look at him marching along with that great branch of king fern over his shoulder!”
“’T is an elfin cheel some ways. Wonnerful eyes he’ve got. They burn me if I look at’em close,” said Chris. She regarded Timothy without sentiment and her eyes were bright and hard.
“I hope he will turn out well. Will spoke of him the other day. He is very fond of the child. It is singularly like him, too—a sort of little pocket edition of him.”
“So I’ve heard others say. Caan’t see it at all myself. Look at the eyes of un.”
“Will believes the boy has got very unusual intelligence and may go far.”
“May go so far as the workhouse,” she answered, with a laugh. Then, observing that her reply pained Martin, Chris snatched up small Tim as he passed by and pressed him to her breast and kissed him.