“Not I,” said she.
“Not you?”
“Not rich,” she answered, “but helpful t’ such as do the work o’ the world.”
“T’ me, Bessie?”
“Ay,” with a smile and half a sigh, “t’ you.”
“An’ only me? I’d not be selfish with you. Is you wishin’ t’ be helpful—only t’ me?”
“No.”
“T’ him?”
“An it please you,” she softly answered.
“An’ we t’ you, Bessie!” I cried, in a rapture, kissing her plump little hand, which lay over my shoulder, convenient to my lips. “Ay, for your loving-kindness, my sister!”