“Willie,” said Mrs Jenks, “Willie’s ’is name—leastways ’is home name.”
“And is he a comin’ back any day, ma’am? Is you a lookin’ hout o’ the winder fur ’im any day?”
“No, Flo, he won’t come any day, he won’t come fur a bit.”
“Wen ’is best robe is ready, ma’am?”
“Yes; when he comes it shall be ready.”
“’Ow soon is ’ee like to walk in, ma’am?”
“I don’t know exact,” said Mrs Jenks, “but I’ll look out fur him in the spring, when the little crocuses and snowdrops is out—he’s very like to turn up then.”
As Mrs Jenks spoke she folded the jacket and put it tidily away, and then she unbandaged Flo’s foot and rubbed some strengthening liniment on it, and undressed the little girl and put her into bed, and when she had tucked her up and kissed her, and Flo hail rewarded her with a smile breaking all over her little white, thin face, something in the expression of that, face caused her to bend down again and speak suddenly.
“God has given me a message for you, child, and forgetful old woman that I am, I was near going to sleep without yer ’aving it.”
“Wot’s the message, mum?”