Betsey Pilrig and Philena crowded about Thurley. “Is your mother awful sick, too?” Betsey asked.
Thurley nodded. “Always been sick—guess she always will be. Pa has been sick, too—ever since I remember anything.”
“Where are their folks?” Mrs. Hawkins demanded. “Somebody ought to look after them!”
“Guess they haven’t any,” Thurley answered easily. “Guess they’re all dead—or something.”
She looked reproachfully at Daniel and Lorraine, who had retreated several feet away. “Guess you won’t laff again,” she said imperiously.
She passed them with an absurd swagger, and a moment later they saw her unhitching the tired nags with the dexterity of a groom.
“I swan,” Mrs. Hawkins said to Betsey Pilrig, “that mite carin’ for those worthless beggars—gettin’ her to sell their old pans—did you ever see such blue eyes and did you ever, ever hear any one sing like that? She’ll be famous, if she don’t starve to death takin’ care of them first!”
“Granny,” said Philena Pilrig,—being lame Philena never played with other children—“I love that little girl; ask her to come see me.”
“She don’t have time for visiting, I guess,” her grandmother answered. “We’ll send her something nice to eat; she’d rather have that.”
Behind the woodpile Daniel and Lorraine were talking it over.