She was very poor—you could tell that by her well-worn dress and the nature of her occupation. A woman must be poor indeed who sews linen for a livelihood in our great city. She was married, if the wedding-ring on her finger spoke the truth, and she called herself Mrs. Smith. Presently she lifted her face from the work and looked across to the sofa.
‘Well, Shakspeare,’ she said, ‘do you feel wanner now?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs. Smith,’ answered the lad; ‘I’m all right now. It makes me warm to see the folks a-movin’ about. Lor, shan’t I be glad when I can go out! Do you think it’ud hurt me if I wropped up?’
‘You mustn’t go out, the doctor says, not when the wind’s in the east.’
‘Ah, I have been bad, ain’t I?—reg’lar bad. Do you know, Mrs. Smith, I believe if you hadn’t nussed me I should o’ been a-turnin’ up my toes to the daisies now. Granny’s a good soul, but she ain’t in the hunt with you at nussin’.
‘Poor old lady,’ said Mrs. Smith, ‘she’s wanted nursing herself; but we’ve got you all right between us, Shakspeare, and when your mother comes back she’ll find her boy nearly himself again.’
‘Poor mother—ain’t she just fond of me!’ exclaimed Master Shakspeare Jarvis, drawing a letter from his pocket. ‘Here’s the last letter as the leadin’ tragedian wrote for her to say as they was on the road home. Why, she might be here any time now, Mrs. Smith. It’s the first tower as they’ve bin without me ever since I can remember, and I hope it’ull be the last.’
‘Never mind,’ said Mrs. Smith, with a smile; ‘you haven’t been idle; there’s the new drama.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the lad, his pale face flushing, ‘I think I’ve done it this time. There’s a part for mother as’ull suit her prime, and my part’s tiptop. Shall I give you a scene now?’
‘No, you must not excite yourself.’