“I am glad you were with her; I know it was a comfort,” said Helen. Her eyes roved over the man’s tall figure thoughtfully. “And I am glad that I was in to take your message, Mr. Sandersfield,” she added a little coldly. “I am Mrs. Armstrong.”
“I know, I know,” he replied with a gesture that was almost rough in its curtness. He stood as if he were about to speak further, then hesitated, and finally turned resolutely away. “Good morning,” he said as he passed out of the door, but Helen did not answer. To her that pause had been strangely voiceful of Kathleen; she tingled to the very finger tips with the strong current of his thoughts. She could not tell whether she resented it or not.
Mrs. Rawls was full of pleasure that her visitor had slept so long. The sleigh was once more waiting for Helen. “Tell Mrs. Rhodes I will be with her later,” she said as she tucked herself comfortably in, and lay back against the red velvet cushions. The glare of the sunshine on the snow dazzled her.
“Ma’am,” said a voice in her ear. The coachman was waiting to let some teams pass. “Ma’am, may I speak to ye?” She turned, startled, to find a large, gaunt, bearded man standing beside her, with his big, hairy hand laid detainingly on the sleigh. His working clothes had all the color worn out of them.
“What is it?” asked Helen, drawing back.
“As I come up I seen white crape and ribbons on the door below, and I just heard ye speak her name, ma’am; it’s not the gay little felly with the light curls that’s dead?”
“Oh, it is,” cried Helen, the tears coming to her eyes.
The man took off his hat and stood bare-headed in the snow, his lips moving, though Helen heard no sound.
“He was one of the Lord’s own,” he said after a minute in a husky voice. “Sure He knows best. Not a day that little felly passed us a-workin’ on the road but he had a word for each man! Sure he was known all over this town. ’Twas no more than a couple of weeks ago that he brought home Mike O’Brien’s little gell that was sitting in a puddle in Dean Street, and she just free of the measles. Ma’am, my heart’s sore for the boy’s mother, and she a widdy. Would ye just tell her that me and me mates would turn our hands to any work for her for the boy’s sake? Sure there’s no other work a-doin’ this weather.”
“If you will come up to Lawndale this afternoon Mr. Armstrong will see about some employment for you,” said Helen hurriedly. “Do you know the place? The big stone house with the pillars? Yes, that is right. And I will tell Mrs. Rhodes. Drive on, Benson.”