“Oh, yes, Betty,” he said, leaning towards her and speaking softly, “you must remember me. Master Tom who used to come to your cottage on baking days for hot bread, you know.”
“To be sure I minds un, bless his little heart,” said the old woman faintly. “Hev he come to see poor Betty? Do'ee let un com', and lift un up so as I med see un. My sight be getting dim-like.”
“Here he is, Betty,” said Tom, taking her hand—a hardworking hand, lying there with the skin all puckered from long and daily acquaintance with the washing-tub—“I'm Master Tom.”
“Ah, dearee me,” she said slowly, looking at him with lustreless eyes. “Well, you be growed into a fine young gentleman, surely. And how's the Squire and Madam Brown, and all the fam'ly?”
“Oh, very well, Betty,—they will be so sorry to hear of your illness.”
“But there ain't no hot bread for un. 'Tis ill to bake wi' no fuz bushes, and the bakers' stuff is poor for hungry folk.”
“I'm within three months as old as your Harry, you know,” said Tom, trying to lead her back to the object of his visit.
“Harry,” she repeated, and then collecting herself went on, “our Harry; where is he? They haven't sent un to prison, and his mother a dyin'?”
“Oh, no, Betty; he will be here directly. I came to ask whether there is anything I can do for you.”
“You'll stand by un, poor buoy—our Harry, as you used to play wi' when you was little—'twas they as aggravated un so he couldn't abear it, afore ever he'd a struck a fly.”