the child up to her knee, she began kissing it fondly.
Margaret laid her hand on the woman's arm to arrest her attention. Their eyes met.
"Poor little fellow!" said Margaret, slowly; "he was his father's darling."
"He is his father's darling," said the woman, rising hastily, and standing face to face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher began in a low growling tone, gathering in wildness as she went on: He is his father's darling, I say. Poor folk can love their childer as well as rich. Why dunno yo' speak? Why dun yo' stare at me wi your great pitiful eyes? Where's John?" Weak as she was, she shook Margaret to force out an answer. "Oh, my God!" said she, understanding the meaning of that tearful look. She sank back into the chair. Margaret took up the child and put him into her arms.
"He loved him," said she.
"Ay," said the woman, shaking her head, "he loved us a'. We had some one to love us once. It's a long time ago; but when he were in life and with us he did love us, he did. He loved this babby mappen the best on us; but he loved me and I loved him, though I was calling him five minutes agone. Are yo' sure he's dead?" said she, trying to get up. "If it's only that he's ill and like to die, they may bring him round yet. I'm but an ailing creature mysel—I've been ailing this long time."
"But he is dead—he is drowned!"
"Folk are brought round after they're dead- drowned. Whatten was I thinking of, to sit still
