She opened the piano, determined to listen to herself and judge what truth there was in the remark. She ran over a few scales, but was interrupted by a rough-looking man shouting, "Stop that noise, and come here! It'd be better if you looked after the bits of bairns than sit squealing there like a pig getting killed. Don't stare so daft; where's yer father?"
Eva rose in anger, but going up to the man, words died on her lips—her heart seemed to stand still, for in his arms he held Babs, white and limp.
"What has happened—is she dead?"
"Don't know; get her to bed." But Eva's hands trembled too much to move them, so the old Scotch shepherd pushed her aside, muttering, "Yer feckless as yer bonny; get out of the way." Tenderly his rough hands cared for the little one, undressing and laying her in her bed.
"She's always after the chickens and things on our place, and I think she's had a kick or a fall, for I found her lying in a paddock."
"Where were you, Eva? Hadn't you missed Babs? I thought at any rate she would be safe with you," said her father.
Eva's remorse was real. Her mother dying, perhaps, the children entrusted to her, and she—wrapped up in herself and her own grievances—what use was she in the world? But oh! if Babs were only spared how different she would be! If she died, Eva told herself, she would never be happy again.
She went downstairs wretched and helpless, and once more found Jessie Meadows in possession of the kitchen. "How is Babs?"
"Conscious, I think—but I don't know," and the girl buried her face and wept passionately.
"There, there, Eva, we've all got to learn lessons, and some are mighty hard. Take life as you find it, and don't make trouble. The change was a big one, I know, but you'll find warm hearts and willing hands wherever men and women are. I just brought over a pie and a few cakes I found in my pantry——"