'Are any of them deformed or hurt in any way?'
'None of them are hurt—they are in good health,' he said.
'Have you ceased to love me?'—her voice was losing the note of fear that made it hard and unnatural.
He looked at her, and his eyes swam.
Her arms were round him, she was kissing him, kissing his wet eyes, his trembling lips, stroking his cheeks, crying over him.
'You are afraid to tell me—me, your own little wife—something that does not matter at all. What can anything matter? We are all alive, and we love each other as we have done always. Darling, darling, don't look like that! Put down your head here, here on my breast—my husband, my darling! This is Molly, who went all through the ups and downs with you; you never used to be afraid to tell her anything.'
He tried to speak, but sobs shook him instead.
'Hush!' she said. 'There, don't talk, don't try to tell me. I know, darling. You lost the position, and you couldn't get another, and you're all as poor as poor can be. Pooh! what does that matter? You have none of you starved, since you are all alive, and the end has come. Poor hands, poor hands,'—her kisses and tears covered them,—'have they been breaking stones that the children might have bread?'
'Molly,' he said, anguished, 'your worst thought cannot picture what I have brought them to.'
She trembled a little—Hermie, little Floss, the boys!