"It's glad enough I'd be to let you help, an' quick enough, too, if it was anything that you could fix. But nothin' but money'll do it, an' I can see by them old shoes you're a-wearin', an' you goin' with that old last year's coat all winter, that you—that you ain't earned but just enough to keep you an' Gracie alive."
"That's all true enough, Mrs. Mulhall," returned the nurse, cheerfully, "but I am sure it will help you just to tell me about the trouble." Then, with a little more urging, the nurse drew from them the whole pitiful story.
At the time of Jack Mulhall's death, Judge Strong; had held a mortgage on the little home for a small amount. By careful planning the widow and her son had managed to pay the interest promptly, and the Judge, though he coveted the place, had not dared to push the payment of the mortgage too soon after the marshal's death because of public sentiment. But now, sufficient time having elapsed for the public to forget their officer, who had been killed on duty, and Deborah, through receiving Grace Conner and Miss Harwell into her home, being included to some extent in the damaging comments of the righteous community, the crafty Judge saw his opportunity. He knew that, while the people would not themselves go to the length of putting Deborah and her crippled boy out of their little home, he had nothing to fear from the sentiment of the community should he do so under the guise of legitimate business.
The attitude of the people had kept Deborah from earning as much as usual and, for the first time, they had been unable to pay the interest. Indeed it was only by the most rigid economy that they would be able to make their bare living until Denny's garden should again begin to bring them in something.
Their failure to pay the interest gave the Judge added reason for pushing the payment of the debt. Everything had been done in regular legal form. Deborah and Denny must go the next day. The widow had exhausted every resource; promises and pleadings were useless, and it was only at the last hour that she had given up.
"But have you no relatives, Mrs. Mulhall, who could help you? No friends?
Perhaps Dr. Oldham—"
Deborah shook her head. "There's only me an' Brother Mike in the family," she said. "Mike's a brick-layer an' would give the coat off his back for me, but he's movin' about so over the country, bein' single, you see, that I can't get a letter to him. I did write to him where I heard from him last, but me letter come back. He don't write often, you see, thinkin' Denny an' me is all right. I ain't seen him since he was here to help put poor Jack away."
For a few minutes the silence in the little room was broken only by poor
Deborah's sobs, and by Denny's voice, as he tried to comfort his mother.
Suddenly the nurse sprang to her feet. "There is some one," she cried.
"I knew there must be, of course. Why didn't we think of him before?"
Deborah raised her head, a look of doubtful hope on her tear-wet face.