“Clothes—one pair of patched breeches—remember 'Little Breeches,' Ches?—one faded flannel shirt—mended till there wasn't much left to mend. A straw hat with a fringe around it—uneven fringe. Inside—a heartache as big as a little fellow could carry and stagger under it. Think of having the heartache—at five and for your grandmother!”
“Why for his grandmother?” asked Winifred Chester.
“Because there wasn't anybody else to have it for. Rest all gone, grandmother the one who attended the breeches and patched the shirt, and went without food herself lest the boy's cheeks get thinner yet. That was what fixed her at last—she hadn't enough vitality to pull her through.”
“So that was the matter with you to-day,” hazarded Chester. “Worried about your patient all day and found you'd lost her when you got back?”
Burns turned upon him with a characteristic flash. “You go join the ranks of the snap-shots. They sometimes miss fire. No, I didn't. I'd lost her before I went or I wouldn't have gone, not for you or any other box-party. It was the kiddie that was on my mind—as I'd seen him last.”
“Where is he now?” asked Martha Macauley urgently. She was the mother of two small sons, and Burns's sketch had interested her.
He looked up at her. “Want to see him?”
“Of course I do. Did you take him to somebody in town? Are you going to send him to the asylum in the city?”
“Do you want to see him?”. Burns inquired of Winifred Chester. He rose.
“Red! What do you mean? Have you got a child here?”