“Oh, thank you, ma’am!” he said. “But, please, would you tell me,” he continued, looking from the one to the other, “how much water I must put in the milk to make it good for baby? I know it wants water, but I don’t know how much!”
“Oh, about half and half,” answered the elder woman. “Ain’t she got no mother?” she resumed.
“I think she must have a mother, but I daresay she’s a tramp,” answered Clare.
“I don’t want to give my good milk to a tramp!” she rejoined.
“I’m not a tramp, please, ma’am!—at least I wasn’t till the day before yesterday.”
The woman looked at him out of motherly eyes, and her heart swelled into her bosom.
“Wouldn’t you like some milk yourself?” she said.
“Oh, yes, ma’am!” answered Clare, with a deep sigh.
She filled a big cup from the warm milk in the pail, and held it out to him. He took it as a man on the scaffold might a reprieve from death, half lifted it to his lips, then let his hand sink. It trembled so, as he set the cup down on a shelf beside him, that he spilled a little. He looked ruefully at the drops on the brick floor.
“Please, ma’am, there’s Tommy!” he faltered.