“Ye bet ye!” the maid answered.
“More’n ye love—some folks?”
“A lot,” said she.
Brown was troubled. He heard the kitchen stove snore in its familiar way, the kettle bubble, the old wind assault the cottage he had builded for the baby; and he remembered recent years—and was troubled.
“Will ye love un more?” he asked, anxiously, turning his face from the child, “than ye loves me?” He hesitated. “Ye won’t, will ye?” he implored.
“’Twill be different,” said she.
“Will it?” he asked, rather vacantly.
“Ye see,” she explained, “he’ll be my father.”
“Then,” suggested “By-an’-by,” “ye’ll be goin’ away along o’ he?—when he comes?”
“Oh, my, no!”