“She didn’t live. She just faded away, and it’s my belief the poor thing didn’t get enough to eat. Every day or two I’d make an excuse to take her in something from my own table, a plate of meat, or a bit of toast and a cup of tay, makin’ belave she didn’t get a chance to cook for herself, but she got thinner and thinner, and her poor cheeks got hollow, and she died in the hospital at last.”
The warm-hearted apple-woman wiped away a tear with the corner of her apron, as she thought of the poor girl whose sad fate she described.
“You won’t die of consumption, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Dodger. “It’ll take a good while for you to fade away.”
“Hear him now,” said the apple-woman, laughing. “He will have his joke, Miss Florence, but he’s a good bye for all that, and I’m glad he’s goin’ to lave Tim Bolton, that ould thafe of the worruld.”
“Now, Mrs. O’Keefe, you know you’d marry Tim if he’d only ask you.”
“Marry him, is it? I’d lay my broom over his head if he had the impudence to ask me. When Maggie O’Keefe marries ag’in, she won’t marry a man wid a red nose.”
“Break it gently to him, Mrs. O’Keefe. Tim is just the man to break his heart for love of you.”
Mrs. O’Keefe aimed a blow at Dodger, but he proved true to his name, and skillfully evaded it.
“I must be goin’,” he said. “I’ve got to work, or I can’t pay room rent when the week comes round.”
“What are you going to do, Dodger?” asked Florence.