away from Bess was torture. So, although they lived in a crowd, they might as well have been on a desert island, as far as companionship went.
And now they saw less of Patsey, to their sorrow. He had saved up a little money, and borrowed some from a good friend, and bought a chair, and set himself up in business. Not a mere common little “kit,” mind you. But it was way down town, and he had new lodgings to be “handy.”
The last of September the weather, that had been lovely, changed. There was a long, cold storm, and blustering winds that would have done credit to March. The “flannils,” that had been such a luxury, were too thin, and Dil spent almost her last penny for some others. No one had ever found out.
How often they looked wistfully at each other, and asked a wordless question. But John Travis had not found them, had not come. Six weeks since that blissful Saturday!
It had been a very hard day for Dil; and heaven seemed far off, as it does to many of us in times of trouble. The morning was lowering and chilly. Dil had overslept, and her mother’s morning cup of coffee was not to her taste. She had given her a box on the ear, I was about to say; but her mother’s hand covered the whole side of her head, and filled it with a rush as of many waters, blinding her eyes so that all looked dark about her. Then Mrs. Kenny’s little Mamie cried for her mother, and would not be pacified. Mrs. Kenny was a young and deserted wife who worked in a coat-shop, and Mamie was a Saturday boarder as well. Dil made the boys’ breakfast with the baby in her arms, and managed to get Bess’s bread and milk, but had hardly a moment to devote to her. Only one more baby came in.
Mrs. Quinn suddenly reappeared. Mrs. Watson had been called away by the illness of her mother, and the washing was to go over to the next week.
“An’ she’ll want two days’ work done in one, an’ no more pay. An’ they don’t mind about your lost day! How’s a woman to live with a great raft of young ones to support, I’d like to know? An’ it’s hard times we hear about a’ready. Goodness knows what I’ll do. An’ you lazy trollop! you haven’t your dishes washed yet! An’ only two babies! Yer’ not worth yer salt!”
“Mamie has cried all the time – ”
“Shet yer head! Not a word of impidence out of you, or I’ll crack yer skull! An’ I know – yer’ve been foolin’ over that wretched little brat in there! I’m a fool fer not sindin’ her up to th’ Island hospital. Fine work they’d have with her! She’d get nussed.”
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