“So sorry, dear—that you’re penned in this way—and Albert missing!”
“Sorry!” Fanny screamed her mirth.
“Don’t you want me to be sorry for you, dear?” Pidge trailed. “Why, I haven’t been nearly so good as I meant to be——”
“Well, you dam’ little itch-face—talking to me about being sorry. Who’n heller-you to tell me about being sorry? Who’n heller-you to talk to me about me gettin’ penned in an’ Albert missin’, when you can’t keep your own man—when you don’t carry your own babies? Who’n heller-you anyway?”
Then Fanny got down to business and spoke of life in the here and now.
“Never mind, dear,” said Pidge. “We can’t attend to everything. I’m going out to get you some ice cream. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She was in the street. She brought back a paper pail without haste. Fanny had begun to cry.
“Don’t feel badly,” Pidge said, washing a saucer and spoon.
Fanny cried on. Pidge served her a large dish, and a smaller one for the older child. Then from the paper, she spooned tiny mouthfuls into the face in the crib—spooned until there was sleep from the novel coolness of the sweet. Then Pidge patted Fanny’s shoulder, as she passed out, promising to come back some time to-morrow.
Upstairs she found Rufe, shirt open at the throat, standing by the back window. The light in the room was heavily shaded. He looked to her covertly, half expectantly.