“Is it true that mother’s bad, Jill?” asked the youngest boy, peering up at his sister half anxiously, half wickedly.
“Yes, of course it’s true. Mother’s often bad. Why do you ask?”
“But old Hastie down in the street, he said that she had gone and—why, what’s the matter, Jill? You look so fierce that you quite take the heart out of a fellow.”
“You shut up,” said Jill. “You whisper in this room one word of what Hastie said, and you’ll feel my fist, I can tell you.”
“Only it’s true, Jill, and you know it,” said Bob, putting down his plate, and coming up and standing by his younger brother’s side. “You needn’t beat the life out of poor Tom for telling the truth. You know that Hastie only spoke the solemn truth, Jill, and you has no call to round on Tom.”
“Hastie told a lie,” said Jill; “and when Tom quotes his words to me, he tells lies.”
“Then mother hasn’t been out this evening.”
“No; she’s been in her bed since two o’clock, orful bad with pain. You’re dreadful cruel boys even to doubt her. She’s the best mother on this earth. Oh, let me see Hastie, and I’ll give him a spice of my mind. Now go and lie down, the pair on yer. I’m shamed of yer bringing up them lies.”
The boys slouched off, frightened at their sister’s blazing cheeks and fiery words. They lay down side by side in an old press bed at one end of the kitchen, and Jill, opening the door, slipped softly down to fetch her flowers from Mrs Stanley. The old woman was still up. She looked at the girl anxiously.
“You found her then, honey?”