Her poor old cackle made the mongrels bark
And 'You sing Binger, mother,' carols he;
'By crimes, but that's a good song, that her be':
And then they slept there in the room they shared,
And all the time fate had his end prepared.
One thing alone made life not perfect sweet:
The mother's daily fear of what would come
When woman and her lovely boy should meet,
When the new wife would break up the old home.
Fear of that unborn evil struck her dumb,