I was so interested in the fate of my old friend, and so curious as to the result, that I followed, and went into the cobbler's house. I found myself in the little room on the ground floor. Seth Bowker was sitting over the fire with his face in his hands, swaying himself, and moaning: "Oh dear! dear life! whatever shall I do without her? and she the best woman as breathed, and knew all my little ways."
Overhead was a trampling. The doctor and the midwife were with the woman. Seth looked up, and listened. Then he flung himself on his knees at the deal table, and prayed: "Oh, good God in heaven! have pity on me, and spare me my wife. I shall be a lost man without her—and no one to sew on my shirt-buttons!"
At the moment I heard a feeble twitter aloft, then it grew in volume, and presently became cries. Seth looked up; his face was bathed in tears. Still that strange sound like the chirping of sparrows. He rose to his feet and made for the stairs, and held on to the banister.
Forth from the chamber above came the doctor, and leisurely descended the stairs.
"Well, Bowker," said he, "I congratulate you; you have two fine boys."
"And my Sally—my wife?"
"She has pulled through. But really, upon my soul, I did fear for her at one time. But she rallied marvellously."
"Can I go up to her?"
"In a minute or two, not just now, the babes are being washed."
"And my wife will get over it?"