“Two mile!” It was clear that it might as well have been twenty, by her hopeless look. “Well, we got to get on. Gee up, Bawly!”
“Oh, but you can’t!” Mrs. Hurst cried. “You—are you going to friends?”
“Oh, no. We don’t know anyone round here. We come out of the hills.”
“Then you are not going any farther,” Mrs. Hurst said, quietly. “Just turn your horse in through this gate. Will you open it, Danny?”
Danny had it open before she had finished speaking.
“Better not try ’n’ get the load up the hill before I grease that axle,” he said. “I’ll slip up an’ get some grease.” He took the rein, and led the tired horse through the gateway.
“But we can’t stay here—four of us,” the woman said. “I thought there’d be a pub somewheres: I got money, y’ know, Missus.”
“Why, I wouldn’t let you go another yard!” Mrs. Hurst answered. “You look just tired out, all of you. Sit down on this log for a few minutes before you walk up the hill.”
The woman sank on the log with a sigh of relief, and the heavy baby in her arms woke and cried. Mrs. Hurst leaned down and took it out of the mother’s arms. Danny had already lifted the children out of the cart: they stood by the wheel, holding each other’s hands, too shy to move, and half-inclined to cry, too.
“My word, it’s good to sit down!” said the woman. “You’re awful kind, Missus. It’s too bad, loafin’ on you like this.”