He said never a word, but opening his coat, took a picture from his pocket and laid it before her. That was Mrs. Bonstone, I knew. I could imagine how the picture of this pretty, rich young woman impressed this sick, poor young woman.
The young woman’s eye just burnt into the photograph. That probably was what she would like to be, and here she was laid up with an injured back, Ellen told us, suffering untold torture most of the time, and likely to die any hour.
She was not related to the other persons in the house. She was merely boarding with them. Her young husband had died while on the way to this country, and she had been struck by a trolley car a few days before, and knew she must die and leave her baby.
Her anxiety was frightful, yet there was a kind of comfort in it for her, for she gazed from Ellen, whom she knew, to Mr. Bonstone whom she did not know, as if to say, “You are all right, if she recommends you.”
“Ask her if she has any relatives here or in her own country,” said Mr. Bonstone to Ellen.
Ellen, making use of a lingo I did not understand, put the question to her.
The woman made vehement gestures, “No, no, the baby is free.”
“Her father was well off,” said old Ellen in a low voice. “He had cattle and sheep, but he was cruel. He beat her, when she said she would not marry a rich, old man. She hated them both, and ran away with a poor young man who helped with her father’s flocks. Then he died.”
“Did she tell you this?” asked Mr. Bonstone.
“No, sir, the other Syrians. She asked them to take her baby after she died, not to let the old grandfather know. He likely would not have it, anyway.”