Thus advised, and cheered moreover by Rain's liberal promise of payment, Mrs. Bunce suddenly exhibited a vast amount of sympathy on behalf of the poor creature; and, having fetched a candle from the back-room, she lighted Rainford, who carried the still senseless woman in his arms, up stairs to a chamber where there was a sordid kind of bed.
Rainford placed his burden on the miserable pallet, and Betsy Bunce applied such restoratives as the circumscribed economy of her household furnished.
In the meantime Toby had brought the little boy into the chamber; and the child, hastening towards the bed, exclaimed, "Mamma—dear mamma—speak to me—why don't you speak to me?"
The woman opened her eyes languidly; but the moment they encountered the face of the child, they were lighted up with joy; and snatching the boy to her breast, she murmured in a faint tone, "I thought I had lost you, Charles—I dreamt that we were separated! Oh! my head—it seems to split!"
And she pressed her open palm to her forehead with all the appearance of intense suffering.
We must pause a moment to observe that this woman seemed to be about five-and-thirty years of age; that she was dressed in widow's weeds of the coarsest materials; and that her entire aspect denoted dreadful privations and great sufferings, mental as well as physical. The boy was also attired in mourning garments; and though his little cheeks were wan, and his form emaciated, still was he a very interesting child.
"My good woman," said Tom Rain, approaching the bed, "banish all misgivings relative to the present; for you shall be taken care of."
Then, turning towards Mrs. Bunce, he directed her to procure food and to send Jacob for a surgeon.
"No—no, it's useless," cried the poor woman, alluding to the latter order. "I feel that I am dying—my last hour is come!"
The child threw his little arms about her neck, and wept piteously.