“Now, my girl, find your baby,” said John, and the young mother hurried with eager eyes from the cradle to the cot and from the cot to the bed.
“Yes, here it is,” she cried. “No—oh no, no!” and she began to wring her hands.
“Told yer so,” said the woman, and with a wicked grin she pointed to a memorial card which hung on the wall.
Aggie's child was dead and buried. Diarrhoea! The doctor at the dispensary had given a certificate of death, and Charlie had shared the insurance money. “Wish to Christ it was ended!” he had said. He had been drunk ever since.
The poor girl was stunned. She was no longer crying. “Oh, oh, oh! What shall I do?” she said.
“Who's child is this?” said John, standing over the wicker cradle. The little sufferer from inflamed gums had sobbed itself to sleep.
“A real laidy's,” said the woman. “Mrs. Jupe told us to tyke great kear of it. The father is Lord something.”
“My poor girl,” said John, turning to Aggie, “could you carry this child home for me?”
“Oh, oh, oh!” said the girl, but she wrapped the shawl about the child and lifted it up sleeping.
“Now, you down't!” said the man, putting himself on guard before the door. “That child is worth 'undrids of pounds to me, and——”