Margaret said something, she hardly knew what, her throat and mouth were so dry, and the children’s noise completely prevented her from being heard. She tried again.
“How are you, Mrs. Boucher? But very poorly, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve chance o’ being well,” said she querulously. “I’m left alone to manage these childer, and nought for to give ’em for to keep ’em quiet. John should na ha’ left me, and me so poorly.”
“How long is it since he went away?”
“Four days sin’. No one would give him work here, and he’d to go on tramp toward Greenfield. But he might ha’ been back afore this, or sent me some word if he’d getten work. He might——”
“Oh, don’t blame him,” said Margaret. “He felt it deeply, I’m sure——”
“Willto’ hold thy din, and let me hear the lady speak!” addressing herself, in no very gentle voice, to a little urchin of about a year old. She apologetically continued to Margaret, “He’s always mithering me for ‘daddy’ and ‘butty’; and I ha’ no butties to give him, and daddy’s away, and forgotten us a’, I think. He’s his father’s darling, he is,” said she, with a sudden turn of mood, and, dragging the child up to her knee, she began kissing it fondly.
Margaret laid her hand on the woman’s arm to arrest her attention. Their eyes met.
“Poor little fellow!” said Margaret, slowly; “he was his father’s darling.”
“He is his father’s darling,” said the woman, rising hastily, and standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low growling tone, gathering in wildness as she went on: “He is his father’s darling, I say. Poor folk can love their childer as well as rich. Why dunno yo’ speak? Why dun yo’ stare at me wi’ your great pitiful eyes? Where’s John?” Weak as she was, she shook Margaret to force out an answer. “Oh, my God!” said she, understanding the meaning of that tearful look. She sank back into the chair. Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.