“Yes, Ned, it’s me. I was just thinking about going home.”
“Home, indeed—’stime to b’goin’ home. Where’v you bin? The babby ’ll ’v bin squallin’ pretty stiff by this time.”
“No fear of baby now,” returned the wife almost defiantly; “it’s gone.”
“Gone!” almost shouted the husband. “You haven’t murdered it, have you?”
“No, but I’ve put it in safe keeping, where you can’t get at it, and, now I know that, I don’t care what you do to me.”
“Ha! we’ll see about that. Come along.”
He seized the woman by the arm and hurried her towards their dwelling.
It was little better than a cellar, the door being reached by a descent of five or six much-worn steps. To the surprise of the couple the door, which was usually shut at that hour, stood partly open, and a bright light shone within.
“Wastin’ coal and candle,” growled the man with an angry oath, as he approached.
“Hetty didn’t use to be so extravagant,” remarked the woman, in some surprise.