“He were drowned,” said Mrs. Boucher, feebly, beginning to cry for the first time, at this rough probing of her sorrows.
“He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o’ aught on earth. He thought God could na be harder than men; m’appen not so hard; m’appen as tender as a mother; m’appen tenderer. I’m not saying he did right, and I’m not saying he did wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor mine ever have his sore heart, or we may do like things.”
“He has left me alone wi’ a’ these children!” moaned the widow, less distressed at the manner of the death than Margaret expected; but it was of a piece with her helpless character to feel his loss as principally affecting herself and her children.
“Not alone,” said Mr. Hale, solemnly. “Who is with you? Who will take up your cause?” The widow opened her eyes wide, and looked at the new speaker, of whose presence she had not been aware till then.
“Who has promised to be a father to the fatherless?” continued he.
“But I’ve getten six children, sir, and the eldest not eight years of age. I’m not meaning for to doubt His power, sir,—only it needs a deal o’ trust”; and she began to cry afresh.
“Hoo’ll be better able to talk to-morrow, sir,” said the neighbour. “Best comfort now would be the feel of a child at her heart. I’m sorry they took the babby.”
“I’ll go for it,” said Margaret. And in a few minutes she returned, carrying Johnnie, his face all smeared with eating, and his hands loaded with treasures in the shape of shells, and bits of crystal, and the head of a plaster figure. She placed him on his mother’s arms.
“There!” said the woman, “now you go. They’ll cry together, and comfort together, better nor any one but a child can do. I’ll stop with her as long as I’m needed, and if you come to-morrow, you’ can have a deal o’ wise talk with her, that she’s not up to to-day.”
As Margaret and her father went slowly up the street, she paused at Higgins’s closed door.