"Couldn't I git her a hunk of thet sausage that we brung home?" he begged.
"You loon," was his answer. "Are you set on murder? Do you want to kill her outright?"
This repressed his enthusiasm. "Never do I," he declared, "spite of the reward, Samanthy. Don't she look like what our little 'un ought to look like if—she grew to look?"
"You loon! How could you tell what she ought to have looked like when her own mother never saw her try? Oh, Josiah," and the lines of hardship melted into possibilities, "wouldn't it have been lovely—if she did—live—to look!"
"'Tweren't your fault—nor mine, Samanthy. He knows, and mebby thet's why He sent this 'un. Ain't she purty? And I don't care a durn about the sanitarition folks. Of course—if we've found her—and they want her——"
It was a strange sight. Those two wrinkled old faces peering into the blossom that lay on that feather bed!
"Josiah Hobbs! You are an old loon! I can't see how you kin make out that this is heaven-sent," and she brushed a fly from the white forehead.
"Oh—yes—you—kin, Samanthy. Else why did you shoo thet fly?"
"Shet up! Do you want to rouse her?" and she went over, and pulled down the green curtain with the pink rose border.
"Are you sartin thet—she's the one?"