Mrs. Beatup reckoned, with a sigh, that she had better go to bed too, as Maaster didn’t like it if she disturbed him later. So she lit her candle, and went slowly creaking upstairs, leaving Ivy to clear away the supper. Just where the stairs bent, she suddenly stood still, as if a thought had struck her.
“Tom,” she called.
He was cleaning his boots in the outer kitchen, but when he heard her he ran up to where she stood, thick against her monstrous shadow in the angle of the stairs.
“It’s queer as you never think of kissing your mother.”
He had not kissed her for weeks, but now, suddenly troubled, he did so.
“I’m sorry, mother.”
“And so you may be—on your last night, too.”
He stood looking at her sheepishly.
“Well, git down to your business. I mustn’t linger, or Maaster ull be gitting into bed in his boots.”