But the little one of all was not interested in this turn of the conversation: "Well, why don't oo have a little boy?"
A dead silence.
"Wont oo, eh?"
Willy was put to the ground. "Let us sing something. Do you like singing, sweetheart?"
The little fellow climbed back to her lap in excitement. "Me sing, me sing. Mammy told I a song—me sing it oo."
And without further ceremony the little chap struck up the notes of a lullaby.
Mercy had learned that same song, as her mother crooned it long ago by the side of her cot. A great wave of memory and love and sorrow and remorse, in one, swept over her. It cost her a struggle not to break into a flood of tears. And the little innocent face looked up at the ceiling as the sweet child-voice sung the familiar words.
There was a new-comer in the bar outside. It was Hugh Ritson, clad in a long ulster, with the hood drawn over his hat. He stepped up to the landlady, who courtesied low from behind the counter. "So he has returned?" he said, without greeting of any kind.
"Yes, sir, he is back, sir; he got home in the afternoon, sir."
"You told him nothing of any one calling?"