"Praise be to God!" answered a feeble voice. "Please stop. I am afraid the child has taken more cold, he is so restless."
"But you have put all your wraps on the little one, and are cold yourself. You are sinning against your own health. However, I should be a fool to quarrel with a mother."
A baby's voice sounded from the cart. "Only two minutes longer. Where shall I drive?"
There was no answer. "Woman, don't you hear? Where shall I stop?"
"In the street. I will get out in the street," answered a gentle, trembling voice.
"Because you are so warmly clad?" growled the man. "But just as you like. Here is the inn."
He aided her to alight, but when he saw how she tottered he attempted to take the child from her. She resisted, and so he took her into the tap-room. The large, dismal place was crowded with peasants and cattle-drivers. The air was foul and heavy with the smell of oil, bad tobacco, and steam generated by the stove-heat acting on the dripping garments.
"This won't do for you," said the hostess, compassionately, as the coachman ushered in the new guest, opening the door into an adjoining room, at once her bed and dwelling room. She brought the milk immediately, protesting better could not be found in the wide world, and then watched the stranger filling the feeding-bottle and giving it to the child.
"Don't you nurse the baby yourself?" she inquired. "Poor thing! I suppose you are too weak."
The stranger had pulled the cloth which covered her head well down in front, so that her face could not be seen distinctly, but the hostess felt convinced it was pale and emaciated. "What a bonny boy! It is a boy, is it not? How merrily he uses his little legs! I suppose you have not travelled far, he is so wide awake. Have you come from Tluste?"