Mrs. Burke had not always been as poor as now. She was the daughter of an Irish tradesman, and had received quite a good education. In due time she married a small farmer, who was considered to be in fair circumstances, but there came a bad year, and misfortunes of various kinds came together. The last and heaviest of all was fever, which prostrated her husband on a bed of sickness. Though his wife watched over him night and day with all the devotion of love, it was all of no avail. He died, and she found herself left with about a hundred pounds—after his debts were paid. She was advised to go to America with her two children, and did so. That was five years before. They had lived in various places—but the little sum she had left over, after the passage of the three was paid, had long since melted away, and she was forced to get a living as she could.
Since she had come to Crampton, leaving Andy at work for a farmer in the place where they had last lived, she had obtained what sewing she could from the families in the village, and had besides obtained a chance to help about the ironing at Colonel Preston's. Washing was too hard for her, for her strength was not great.
At the time of our introduction she was engaged in making a shirt, one of half a dozen which she had engaged to make for Dr. Plympton, the village doctor. She had no idea that Andy was so near, having heard nothing of his having left his place, but it was of him she was speaking.
"I wish I could see Andy," she sighed, looking up from her work.
"So do I, mother."
"The sight of him would do my eyes good, he's such a lively lad, Andy is—always in good spirits."
"Shure, he's got a good heart, mother dear. It wouldn't be so lonely like if he was here."
"I would send for him if there was anything to do, Mary; but we are so poor that we must all of us stay where we can get work."
"When do you go to Colonel Preston's, mother? Is it to-morrow?"
"Yes, my dear."