“In some ways that is more of a relief than you know, Hitty. Some of the young men from up your way are so violent.”
“It ain’t generally known yet,” Hitty said as a parting shot when, Sheila’s hand in hers, she stood at the door preparatory to taking her triumphal departure. “But Nancy is going to marry considerable money in addition to what she’s inherited.”
Nancy finding it impossible to spend an hour of her time idly and with no appointments before noon that day, was engaged in darning a basket full of slum socks that she had brought home from the tenements to occupy Hitty’s leisure moments. She was not very expert at this particular task, and the holes were so huge, and their method of behaving under scientific management so peculiar—it is hardly necessary to say that Nancy knew the theory of darning perfectly—that she was becoming more and more dissatisfied with her progress. Hitty’s 296 unprecedented and taciturn donning of her best bonnet in the early morning hours, followed by her abrupt departure without explanation or apology, was also a little disconcerting to any one acquainted with her habits. Nancy was relieved to hear her key in the lock again, and put down her work to greet her.
The door opened and Sheila stood on the threshold. Hitty was close behind her, but Nancy had eyes only for the child.
“Don’t cry, Miss Dear,” Sheila said, in her arms. “I cried hard every night when I was gone from you, but now I have come back. My father does not want me, and he says that you can have me.”
“He signed a paper,” Hitty said. “I’ve got it in my bag with my specs. If ever he shows his face around here we can have the law on him.”
“Can I really have Sheila?” Nancy cried. “I can’t believe that—her father would let her go. I can’t understand it.”
“He’s a kind of a poor soul,” Hitty said. “He ain’t got no real contrivance. He’s glad enough to get rid of her.”
“Did he say so?”