'I have not got it, Willy. You know that you had it all. Mrs. Quale brought me round a pot of black currant jelly,' she explained to Mary, 'and I poured boiling water on it to make drink. Their little parched throats did so relish it, poor things.'
Mary knelt on the floor and put her hand on the child's moist brow. He was a pretty boy; fair and delicate, with light curls falling round his face. A gentle, thoughtful, intelligent boy he had ever been, but less healthy than some. 'You are thirsty, Willy?'
He opened his heavy eyelids, and the large round blue eyes glistened with fever, as they were lifted to see who spoke.
'How do you do, Mary?' he meekly said. 'Yes, I am so thirsty. Mother said perhaps she should have a sixpence to-night to buy a pot of jelly like Mrs. Quale's.' Mrs. Darby coloured slightly; she thought Mary must reflect on the extravagance implied. Sixpence for jelly, when they were wanting money for a loaf!
'I did say it to him,' she whispered, as she was quitting the room with Mary. 'I thought I might spare a sixpence out of what Darby got from the society. But I can't; I can't. There's so many things we cannot do without, unless we just give up, and lie down and don't even try at keeping body and soul together. Rent, and coals, and candles, and soap; and we must eat something. Darby, too, of course he wants a trifle for beer and tobacco. Mary, I say I am just heart-faint. If the poor boy should die, it'll be upon my mind for ever, that the drink he craved for in his last illness couldn't be got for him.'
'Does he crave for it?'
'Nothing was ever like it. All day long it has been his sad, pitiful cry. "Have you got the jelly yet, mother? Oh, mother, if I could but have the drink!"'
As Mary went through the front room, Robert Darby was in it then. His chin rested on his hands, his elbows were on the table; altogether he looked very down-hearted.
'I have been to see Willy,' she cried.
'Ah, poor little chap!' It was all he said; but the tone implied more.