The man almost pushed her away, and the next moment his stentorian voice was heard, shouting savagely at some timid customers who had appeared on the scene.
Chapter Nine.
Jill had a very successful morning with her flowers; they were the envy and admiration of all the other flower women. Even Molly Maloney felt as if she must indulge in a fit of crossness when she saw those water-lilies, carnations and rose-buds. But there was something in Jill’s face which soon made the other women cease to feel unkindly towards her. Trouble was new to Jill, and the frightened, half-pathetic, half-despairing expression of her fall, velvety brows eyes gave the flower girls who came to talk to her and to admire her basket a queer sensation. They were curious, but their curiosity was not likely to be gratified by Jill. Even to Molly Maloney she scarcely vouchsafed a word of explanation.
“I’m in a bit of worry about mother,” she said once, in a low whisper; “Don’t speak on it, Molly; it’ll pass, no doubt. You ain’t seen mother this morning, ha’ you? She han’t chanced to call round to ask arter Kathleen?”
“No,” replied Molly; “and, ef she did, I wouldn’t dare to let her in. Kathleen’s down with faver, and no mistake. I’m at my best to keep it from the neighbours, for, ef they knew, one o’ them ’spectors would come round and carry the por chile off to the hospital. Oh! worra me, worra me! it’s a weary world, and no mistake.”
Jill said some words of sympathy. She was fond of pretty little Irish Kathleen, and, taking a choice rose-bud and carnation out of her basket, she gave them to Molly to take home to the child.
“Tell her they’re from Jill,” she said, “and I’ll look round to-morrow, may be, or may be Sunday.”
“You ain’t ’feared o’ the faver, then, honey?”