Eleanor seated herself, and put her hand on the old woman's lap.
"I am in trouble, Mother Cary," she said. "But it cannot do any good to talk about it."
"Well, it cert'n'y don't do one mite o' good to let it eat in, dearie. It don't make you die any sooner, much as you'd like to sometimes, when trouble is real bad; it don't make you forget; nor it don't show you any way out. It jest makes the way seem longer."
"That is true," Eleanor said. Then she pondered for a while. Presently she asked, "Do you remember Mr. Flood, Mother Cary?"
"The rich gentleman that run over Timmy? Yes, lamb, I always remember them I like."
Eleanor smiled. "He did run over Timmy, didn't he? Or run into him! So indirectly I owe him my precious baby!"
"And now he wants you to pay him?" the old woman asked.
"Put it that way!" Eleanor replied. "But I cannot pay him, Mother Cary—not as he wants me to! I—I may become blind, some day."
Mother Cary's hand tightened over hers. "Ain't your poor eyes any better?" she asked.
"Yes. Oh, yes, they are better. But I am afraid. Think of burdening a man with a blind wife! And—and he is such a splendid man, Mother Cary! He deserves the very best."