“Ah, I was afraid so,” she said quietly, and without surprise. “I feared there might be another baby at the Hoars’ by this time.”
“Another baby at the Hoars’!” cried Tod, looking up from my new Shakespeare that he was skimming. “How is it going to get fed?”
“I fear that’s a problem none of us can solve, Joseph,” said she.
“Well, folk must be daft, to go on collecting a heap more mouths together, when there’s nothing to feed them on,” concluded Tod, dropping his head into the book again. Mrs. Todhetley was slowly wiping her fingers on the damp cloth, and looking doubtful.
“Joseph, your papa’s not in the way and I cannot speak to him—do you think I might venture to send something to poor Eliza under the circumstances?”
“Send and risk it,” said Tod, in his prompt manner. “Of course. As to the Pater—at the worst, he’ll only storm a bit. But I fancy he would be the first to send help himself. He wouldn’t let her die for the want of it.”
“Then I’ll despatch Hannah at once.”
Hoar was down by the bed when Hannah got there, holding a drop of ale to his wife’s lips. Mr. Cole was standing by with his hat on.
“Ale!” exclaimed Hannah to the surgeon. “May she take that?”
“Bless me, yes,” said he, “and do her good.”