“A few drops of brandy from the flask in our luncheon-basket, John,” said his wife. “I always take it along in case of sickness, you know.”
But the child, a girl of eighteen months, woke with a cry, “Mamma! mamma!” and at the sound the mother’s eyes unclosed.
“Give her to me—my little Ethel!” she said faintly.
“You are ill, my good woman, not able to hold her,” Mrs. Kemper said, as she reluctantly complied with the request.
“Yes, and I—have eaten nothing to-day—and have walked many miles.”
“Poor soul!” exclaimed Irene, the kind-hearted mistress of the shanty, coming in with the tea. “Here, drink this, and I’ll bring you some supper. You look more dead than alive, and the rain has soaked you through and through. Dear, dear! you’ll catch your death o’ cold!”
She raised the wanderer’s head as she spoke, and held the cup to her lips.
It was eagerly drained to the last drop, and seemed to revive the poor creature greatly.
Food was brought, and the babe devoured it as if half famished, but the mother ate sparingly. She was evidently very ill, almost dying, thought those about her, and hastened to do all in their power for her relief and comfort.