He thought the woman mad, tried to check her, but she went on, fierce in her eager haste.
“If I were t' witch dwarf, if I had t' money, wud hur thank me? Wud hur take me out o' this place wid hur and Janey? I wud not come into the gran' house hur wud build, to vex hur wid t' hunch,—only at night, when t' shadows were dark, stand far off to see hur.”
Mad? Yes! Are many of us mad in this way?
“Poor Deb! poor Deb!” he said, soothingly.
“It is here,” she said, suddenly, jerking into his hand a small roll. “I took it! I did it! Me, me!—not hur! I shall be hanged, I shall be burnt in hell, if anybody knows I took it! Out of his pocket, as he leaned against t' bricks. Hur knows?”
She thrust it into his hand, and then, her errand done, began to gather chips together to make a fire, choking down hysteric sobs.
“Has it come to this?”
That was all he said. The Welsh Wolfe blood was honest. The roll was a small green pocket-book containing one or two gold pieces, and a check for an incredible amount, as it seemed to the poor puddler. He laid it down, hiding his face again in his hands.
“Hugh, don't be angry wud me! It's only poor Deb,—hur knows?”
He took the long skinny fingers kindly in his.