“We have lost a child—a little girl,” explained Tod. “I thought she might have been brought here—or have strayed here.”
“I’ve lost my girl,” said the woman. “Death has come for her!” And, when speaking to us, she spoke more intelligibly than when alone.
“Yes; but this child has been lost—lost out of doors! Have you seen or heard anything of one?”
“I’ve not been in the way o’ seeing or hearing, master; I’ve been in the tent alone. If folks had come to my aid, Corry might not have died. I’ve had nothing but water to put to her lips all day?”
“What was the matter with her?” Tod asked, convinced at length that Lena was not there.
“She have been ailing long—worse since the moon come in. The sickness took her with the summer, and the strength began to go out. Jake have been down, too. He couldn’t get out to bring us help, and we have had none.”
Jake was the husband, we supposed. The help meant food, or funds to get it with.
“He sat all yesterday cutting skewers, his hands a’most too weak to fashion ’em. Maybe he’d sell ’em for a few ha’pence, he said; and he went out this morning to try, and bring home a morsel of food.”
“Tod,” I whispered, “I wish that hard-hearted Molly had——”
“Hold your tongue, Johnny,” he interrupted sharply. “Is Jake your husband?” he asked of the woman.