“Why I’se forgot it, mother, already; you sit quiet, and let me tend you.”
While Jill spoke she bustled about, placed the kettle of water on the little gas-stove to boil, and, going out into the passage, filled a basin fall of cold water from a tap. Bringing it back, she tenderly washed her mother’s hot face and hands, combed back her disordered hair, coiled it deftly round her comely head, and then, bending down, kissed the broad, low forehead.
“Now you’re like yourself, so sweet; why you look beautiful; you’re as handsome as a picter. We’ll forget all about that time in the street. See! the kettle’s boiling, we’ll both be real glad of our tea.” The woman began to cheer up under the girl’s bright influence; her head ceased to reel, her hand to shake; she felt instinctively, however, that she had better keep silence, for her brain was still too confused for her to talk sensibly.
The tea was made strong and fragrant. Jill stood by the little mantelpiece while she sipped hers. Her eager eyes watched her mother with an affectionate and sad solicitude.
“Now, mother, you must go to bed at once, and have a good sleep,” she said, when the meal was over.
“I didn’t mean to go and done it,” said the woman again.
“Course you didn’t, mother, and you’ll never do it no more. Go and lie down now.”
“Where are the lads, Jill?”
“They’ll be in presently. It’s all right. You lie down; you look awful spent and worn.”
“But the pain’s better, my gal.”