"Don't try to tell me," cried Polly involuntarily, "if it pains you."
She would have taken the thin hand in hers, but Johnny's uneasy breathing showed him still contesting every inch of progress the "children's sandman" was making toward him, and she didn't dare to move.
"It does me good," said the little woman, "somehow, I must tell you, Miss. And now I'm going to Fall River. Somebody told me I'd get work there in the Print Mills. You see, I haven't any father nor mother, nor anybody belonging to Johnny's father nor me."
"Are you sure of getting work when you reach Fall River?" asked Polly, feeling all the thrill of a great lonely world, for two such little helpless beings to be cast adrift in it.
"No'm," said the little woman; "but it's a big mill, they say, and has to have lots of women in it, and there must be a place for me. I do think that times are going to be good now for Johnny and me, and"—
A crash like that when the lightning begins on deadly work; a surging, helpless tossing from side to side, when the hands strike blindly out on either side for something to cling to; a sudden fall, down, down, to unknown depths; a confused medley of shouts, and one long shuddering scream.
"Oh! what"—began Polly, holding to Johnny through it all. And then she knew no more.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ACCIDENT.
A roaring sound close to her ear made Polly start, and open her eyes. Johnny's fat arms were clutched around her neck so tightly she could scarcely breathe, while he was screaming as hard as he could.