The manufacturer felt as if he had hit the woman a blow by his careless question. He sat watching her for a moment in silence, and then said—“Come, get into the gig, my poor woman; come, I must see you to Castleborough.”
The poor woman dried her tears, and heavily climbed into the gig, expressing her gratitude in a very touching and modest manner. Spires buttoned the apron over her, and taking a look at the child, said in a cheerful tone to comfort her, “Bless me, but that is a fine, thumping fellow, though. I don’t wonder you are tired, carrying such a load.”
The poor woman pressed the stout child, apparently two years old, to her heart, as if she felt it a great blessing, and no load. The gig drove rapidly on.
Presently, Mr. Spires resumed his conversation.
“So you are from Castleborough?”
“No, sir, my husband was.”
“So: what was his name?”
“John Deg, sir.”
“Deg?” said Mr. Spires; “Deg, did you say?”
“Yes, sir.”