I cannot say that she felt no misgivings; but the consciousness of doing a simple and blameless act helped to quiet the beating of her heart as she approached the Peakslow door.
It was open, and she could see the family at breakfast within, while the loud talking prevented her footsteps from being heard.
Besides Dud and Zeph, there were three or four younger children, girls and boys, the youngest of whom—a child with bandaged hands and arms—sat in its father's lap.
Vinnie remembered the swarthy face, bushy beard, and hooked nose; and yet she could hardly believe that this was the same man who once showed her such ruffianly manners on the wharf in Chicago. He was fondling and feeding the child, and talking to it, and drumming on the table with his knife to amuse it and still its complaining cries.
"Surely," thought Vinnie, "there must be some good in a man who shows so much affection even toward his own child." And with growing courage she advanced to the threshold.
Mrs. Peakslow—a much-bent, over-worked woman, with a pinched and peevish face—looked up quickly across the table and stared at the strange visitor. In a moment all eyes were turned upon Vinnie.
"I beg your pardon," she said, pausing at the door. "I wish to get a pail of water. Can I go to your well and help myself?"
The children—and especially Dud and Zeph—looked in astonishment at the bright face and girlish form in the doorway. As Mr. Peakslow turned his face toward her, all the tenderness went out of it.
"What do Betterson's folks send here for water for? And what makes 'em send a gal? Why don't they come themselves?"
"They did not send me," Vinnie answered as pleasantly as she could. "I came of my own accord."