“What a shame, Joseph!” cried Mrs Portlock, indignantly. “How can you say such a cruel thing! Glad she is so ill!”
“I didn’t mean I was glad she was ill,” said the Churchwarden, chuckling. “I meant I was glad she was too ill to have the bairns.”
“But it sounds so dreadful.”
“Let it. What do I care! I don’t want for us to be always squabbling over those children. They’re my Sage’s bairns, and consequently they’re ours.”
“But they’re Cyril Mal—”
“Tchah! Don’t mention his name,” cried the Churchwarden.
“Fie, Joseph! you do make me jump so when you talk like that.”
“Shouldn’t mention that fellow’s name then. I told you not.”
“Well, then, they are Mr and Mrs Mallow’s children just as much as ours, Joseph,” said the old lady.
“No they ain’t; they’re mine, and there’s an end of it. I say, though, old Michael Ross is ill.”