“And you mustn’t mind what an old fellow says, Miss Scrannage,” he said, holding out his hand with a courtly bow. “Goodness me, my dear woman, can you guess what we’ve suffered when those blessed babies couldn’t be found? And so shake hands, and forgive whatever you didn’t like in my words.”
“Oh, I’ll forgive!” said Miss Scrannage, putting out her toil-worn hand with just as much pride; “an’ mebbe I hadn’t orter been so quick myself; but I can’t help it, for I’ve got it from the Scrannage side o’ th’ house, an’ it’s hard to pull up. Well, now, B’lindy, seein’ all’s comfortable, we better be a-goin’. We’re goin’ to stay all night, ye know,” she said, addressing the company, “down to our cousin’s in town; but we got to go to one or two more o’ th’ shops, an’ then we want to visit some before supper.”
Mr. King did not dare to interrupt; but he kept fingering his pocket-book nervously, well concealed as it was. His eyes sought Phronsie’s face and Polly’s, and finding no encouragement in either, he cleared his throat, “Hem! well, now, Miss Scrannage, I don’t want to hinder you; but what sort of a man is this Mr. Babbidge, I believe you said his name was, that gave the children to you?”
“Oh! he’s a good sort o’ man, ’Biel Babbidge is,” replied Miss Sally, “dretful poor he is, an’”—
“Poor, is he?” cried old Mr. King with interest.
“Land, yes! never was forehanded; couldn’t be, with that sick wife of his.”
“Is she sick?” asked Phronsie pityingly.
“Yes; hain’t done a hand’s turn for a year, with rheumatiz, an’ before that ’twas newmony, an’ before that”—
“Poor man!” said Polly; “of course he couldn’t get along, with a sick wife.”
“That’s so,” assented Miss Sally; “an’ he hain’t got along; has to hire whatever help he gets in the house. He’s dretful good to his wife; sets a store by her, an’ treats her jest like a baby. She was a Potter, lived down to th’”—