One thing Mrs. McVeigh's widowhood had not spoilt, and that was her motherly instincts in the handling of a baby, and the room seemed brighter and more hopeful from the moment she began to rock, singing a lullaby in a strange, soothing tone.
Mrs. Bennet gazed in silent gratitude for awhile, then she spoke again.
"The doctor was here."
"And what did he say?" Nancy inquired.
"I'm not goin' to get better," she faltered.
"Tut, tut, Mary! Ye're jest wearied out and blue, and ye don't know what ye say. Think of yer poor childer. What would they do without their mother?"
"I don't know," murmured Mrs. Bennet, beginning to cry. "The doctor says I might recover if I had hospital treatment and an operation. But it's a terrible expense. Just beyond us altogether. He said it would cost a hundred dollars at least."
"And would ye be puttin' yer life in danger fer the sake o' a sum like that?" Nancy said, feigning great unbelief.
"It may not seem much to such as you, Mrs. McVeigh, who has a business, and every traveller spending as he passes by, but Jim is none too saving, and with three crying babes and a rented farm it's more than we can ever hope fer," answered Mrs. Bennet.
"Don't you worry one bit more about it, Mary. Maybe the good Lord'll find a way to help you fer the sake o' Jim and the childer," Nancy said, encouragingly, and then she went into the kitchen to direct Bennet in the preparation of the broth, the baby still tucked under her arm, sleeping peacefully.