Part 16 (1/2)

”Good day, Mrs. Adam,” from a sharp-faced neat woman, sitting at the doorway of the barricaded house, knitting rapidly.

”It's a beautiful day, isn't it?” said Madame ingratiatingly.

”Lovely,” responded the woman. ”It's a great thing we had so much rain, we need a lot down here, we're that dry.”

Madame chose to take the sarcasm as a joke, and laughed blithely.

But the woman did not smile. ”She's had to work too hard, poor soul,”

whispered the visitor when they had pa.s.sed. ”She's clean and thrifty but she has to wash to support a crippled boy and a consumptive girl.

No wonder she's sour.”

They pa.s.sed two or three more sorry-looking houses and finally paused before the gate of the home of Madame's little pupil. The bare gra.s.sless yard was filled with old boxes and rubbish. A big lumbering lad of about fourteen sprawled over the doorstep playing with a string.

He looked up with vacant eyes, and clutched at the visitors' skirts, muttering and jabbering in idiot glee.

Madame put her hand tenderly on his small, ill-shaped head.

”Poor Eddie,” she whispered, ”poor boy.”

She fumbled in her big black satchel and brought out a gay candy stick.

He grabbed it with strange cries of joy. The sounds brought a ragged little ghost of a woman to the door, carrying a tiny bundle on her arm.

”Well, well, is that you, Madame?” she cried, smiling a broad toothless smile. ”I thought it was you, an' Minnie she says, I believe that's my teacher, Ma.”

Madame climbed the steep steps, Helen following. The room was dirty and untidy. A rusty stove and table, three chairs and an ill-smelling cupboard in the corner, with some gaudy gla.s.s dishes upon it, were the only furniture.

”And how are you, Mrs. Perkins? This is the new teacher, Miss Murray.

When Minnie pa.s.ses out of my room, she'll he under this lady's care.

And how is my little girl this afternoon?”

Madame pa.s.sed to the door of the tiny bedroom. The bed filled the whole s.p.a.ce with just room enough to stand left between it and the wall. A little girl was lying on it, her hollow cheeks pink, her eyes bright. The sun poured in at the bare window and the room was hot and breathless. The swarming flies covered her face and arms. She brushed them away fretfully, and stretched out her hot hands for the flowers.

”Oh, teacher,” she cried, trying to strangle her cough, ”I watched and I watched for you all day and I was scared you wasn't comin'.”

Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby sat down on the edge of the dirty bed and put her cool hand on the little girl's burning forehead.

Helen placed herself rather gingerly on a proffered chair, and looked at the wee bundle in the woman's arms.

”Why, it's a baby,” she whispered in awe. The mother's faded face lit up with pride. She held the little sc.r.a.p of humanity towards the visitor. ”'E's a grite little rascal, 'e is,” she exclaimed fondly.

”As smart as a weasel, an' 'im only a fo'tnight old last Sunday.”

Helen was positively afraid to touch the little bundle, but the look of utter exhaustion on the woman's face overcame her repugnance. She held out her arms and the mother dropped the baby into them and sank upon a chair with a sigh of relief.

”Only a little over two weeks,” gasped Helen, looking at the wee wrinkled face peeping from the bundle.

The mother's face beamed with joy and pride. She thought that the visitor's astonishment was for the wonderful baby, all unconscious of herself.

”Yes'm, just but a fo'tnight, and a little over. Oh 'e's a grite little tyke, 'e is. Ain't 'e, now?”

”Has Doctor Blair been to see Minnie?” asked Madame softly.