“My little son is o’er young yet for crutches,” said the woman. “I have always carried him in my arms.”
“And one day he was going down the street,” said Deliverance, resuming her narrative, “when some naughty boys larfed at him and called him jeering names——”
A smothered sob was heard in the other end of the cell.
“Then what should hap,” continued Deliverance, “but our reverend judge and godly parson walking arm-in-arm along the street in pious converse, I wot not. I saw the judge who was about to pass his snuff-box to the parson, forget and put it back in his pocket, and his face go red all at once, for he had spied the naughty boys. He was up with his walking-stick, and I thought it was like to crack the pate o’ Thomas Jenkins, who gave over larfing and began to bellow. But the parson told him to cease his noise; then he put his arm around Submit Hodge. Ye ken I happed to hear all this because I was going to a tea-party with my patchwork, and I just dawdled along very slow like, a-smelling at a rose I picked, but with ears wide open.
“And I heard our parson tell the naughty boys that Submit was the Lord’s afflicted, and that it was forbid in His Holy Word e’er to treat rudely one who was blind or lame or wanting in gumption or good wits. ‘For,’ he said, ‘they are God’s special care. And it be forbid any man to treat them ill.’ With that the judge put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a handful of peppermint drops for Submit. And being a high-tempered body, he cracked another boy over his pate with his walking-stick. ‘’Twill holpen ye to remember your parson’s words,’ quoth he. And then he and the parson walked on arm-in-arm. When I passed Thomas Jenkins who was bellowing yet, I larfed and snickered audible-like, for I ne’er liked naughty boys. It be a goodly sight to clap eyes on Submit these days, so blithe and gay. Nobody dare tease the lad.”
“You comfort me greatly,” said the woman; “the Lord’s words were in my heart, but in my misery I had nigh forgot them. You have given me peace. Should you be saved, you will not forget my little son. Though you be but a young maid, God may grant you grace to holpen him as is motherless.”
“What be his name?” asked Deliverance.
“’Tis Hate-Evil Hobbs,” answered the woman; “he lives in Ipswich.”
“I will get father to take me there, and I be saved,” answered Deliverance, drowsily; “now I will lie down and go to sleep again, for I be more wore-out a-pining and a-weeping o’er my sad condition than e’er I be after a long day’s chores at home.”