"I don't know why it should be harder for her because she's pretty!"
"I didn't mean that; but it always goes to my heart to hear of young folks in trouble, and when I see the child of that poor widow upstairs, I always think of our child—about the same age as this Felicia she would have been if she had lived, wouldn't she?"
Mrs. M'Cosh nodded, her plain countenance softening, her shrewd grey eyes growing dim. She had never had but one child—a baby girl who had lived but a few months to gladden her parents' hearts.
"Now, I rather like the name Felicia myself," Mr. M'Cosh admitted; "it's out of the common. What makes you object to it?"
"It's too fanciful, to my mind; it would do well enough for a lady, but think of a girl who'll have to work for her living being called Felicia! I should say her mother is a foolish, unpractical sort of woman."
"Poor soul! It's easy to see she's come down in the world," commented Mr. M'Cosh.
"Yes," agreed his wife; "she's a way of wearing her clothes so as to make the best of them, and I must admit she and the child always look tidy and clean. If she'd been able to scrub she'd be better off to-day; blouse-making and that sort of employment is heartbreaking work, and there's very little profit, I'm afraid, after paying for the hire of a sewing machine. 'Tis 'sweating,' that's what it is, and it never ought to be allowed."
"Has Mrs. Renford had a doctor?" inquired Mr. M'Cosh. Then, as his wife shook her head, he added, decidedly: "Someone ought to see to her."
Mrs. M'Cosh made no rejoinder immediately. She rather prided herself on having nothing to do with her neighbours and "keeping herself to herself," as she expressed it. At length, however, she said—
"'Tis the duty of ministers and district visitors to find out those who are sick and in want of assistance. You can't think it's my place to interfere. Mrs. Renford has always rather kept me at a distance."