“She's late,” she said. “I mought ha' knowed she'd be late. I wisht she'd coom—I do. An' yet—an' yet I'm feart. I wisht it wur over;” and she twisted her fingers together nervously.
She had laid the child down upon the bed, and presently it roused her with a cry. She went to it, took it up into her arms, and, carrying it to the fire, sat down.
“Why couldn't tha stay asleep?” she said. “I nivver seed a choild loike thee.”
But the next minute, the little creature whimpering, she bent down in impatient repentance and kissed it, whimpering too.
“Dunnot,” she said. “I conna bear to hear thee. Hush, thee! tha goes on as if tha knew. Eh! but I mun be a bad lass. Ay, I'm bad through an' through, an' I conna be no worse nor I am.”
She did not kiss the child again, but held it in her listless way even after it fell asleep. She rested an elbow on her knee and her chin upon her hand while her tearful eyes searched the fire, and thus Joan found her when she came in at dusk.
“Tha'rt late again, Joan,” she said.
“Ay,” Joan answered, “I'm late.”
She laid her things aside and came to the firelight. The little one always won her first attention when she came from her day's labor.
“Has she been frettin'?” she asked.