Polly made a laborious mental calculation of rooms.
“Four!” she begged.
“No, two. Then we’ll do the others together when I come in.” This was a bait that never failed, and Polly succumbed.
“Good-oh!” she said, beaming. “I’ll go and get that tea now.” She went off happily, and Robin departed in search of Bessy.
When she came back, a bucket in each hand, Mrs. Ryan was standing on the back veranda. The baby was in her arms: Micky and Joe, still tongue-tied with shyness, pressed against her skirt.
“I hope you slept well. Mrs. Ryan,” Robin said. “You needed a good rest.”
“No, I didn’t sleep much,” the woman said. “It was hot—and I kep’ thinkin’ of them back there at the mill. It’ll be a bit of a terror, you know, if that mill goes: we put every penny into it, an’ we got a first-rate lot of timber cut, waitin’ for the road. It’s been hard scratchin’ to live, but we done it somehow, knowin’ we’d get a good cheque when we sold. But if the fire comes——.” She shut her lips tightly.
“It may not come, Mrs. Ryan. Try not to worry too much,” Robin said, pityingly, knowing, as she spoke, how useless were her words.
“You an’ your mother have been awful kind, miss,” Mrs. Ryan said. There was a flash of gratitude in her dull eyes. “I’d never forget it. But it’s hard not to worry a bit.”
“Was the fire very near, Mrs. Ryan?”