“I do,” she said.
“Give me some water.”
She handed him a small, earthen pitcher, from which he took a copious and refreshing draught.
“Now,” he said, “sit you by the fire, and sing that song you were singing. It will seem then as if you had been undisturbed, and remember you are playing a game in which the stake is the life of your child.”
“Heaven aid me!” said the mother.
“Hush! To your seat!—To your seat!”
“Oh! Even be you what you may, I will do my best to save you, if you will allow me to sit here.”
She pointed to the side of the cot.
“No, no,” said Gray; “the child shall be nearer to me than to you.”
“Why—oh, why?”