The old woman stamped on her bedroom floor.
"I do not ask that, Sally," pleaded the boy. "I have set the baby in Bideabout's barn, and there's no knowin', it may get hold of the chopper and hack off its limbs, or pull down all the rick o' broom-handles on Itself, or get smothered in the heather. I want a lantern. I don't know how to pacify the creature, and 'tis squeadling that terrible I don't know what's the matter."
"Is it a drawin' of the hind legs up, and stiffenin' of the back?" asked the old maid.
"I think so," answered the boy, dubiously; then, with further consideration, "I'm sure of it. It wriggled in my arms, like a worm when one's gettin' it on a hook out fishing."
"That's convulsions," said Sally. "'Twill go off in one of they, sure as eggs is eggs and ain't inions."
"Do you really say so?"
"It's that, or water on the brain. Wi' all this pouring rain, I shouldn't wonder if 'twasn't the tother. Not, you know, that I've any acquaintance wi babies. Only I've heard wimmin talk as has had 'em just like rabbits."
"Do they die when they have water on the brain?" asked the boy.
"Always. Babies can't stand it, no more nor can goslings gettin' their backs wetted."
"Don't you think that perhaps it's only hunger?"