The man's grief was renewed at the last suggestion. But Jelly had really meant it in the light of consolation.
"She was your god-child, Jelly."
"You needn't tell me that," answered Jelly. "Could I have saved her life at any trouble or cost, I would have done it. If I had a home of my own I'd have taken her to it, but I'm only in service, as you know. Ketler, it is the strike that has killed that child."
Ketler was silent.
"Cissy was a weakly child and required extra comforts; as long as you were in work she had them, but when that dropped off, of course the child suffered. And now she's gone. She is better off, Ketler."
"Yes," assented the man as if he were heartbroken. "If it wasn't for the thought of the rest, I should wish it was me that was gone instead."
"Well, give my love to Susan and say I'm sorry for it altogether, and I'll come down some time in the morning. And, look here, Ketler--what about the money for the burial? You've nothing towards it, I expect."
"Not a penny," moaned Ketler.
"Well, I know you wouldn't like the poor little thing to be buried by the parish, so I'll see what's to be done, tell Susan. Goodnight."
Jelly shut down the window sharply. She really looked upon the strike as having led to the child's death--and remotely possibly it had done so; so what with that, and the untimely disturbance, her anger was somewhat excusable.