‘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 hack 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 when I should be stirring mysel’?  Here, whisth thee, child—­whisth thee! tak’ this, tak’ aught to play wi’, but dunnot cry while my heart’s breaking!  Oh, where is my strength gone to?  Oh, John—­husband!’

Margaret saved her from falling by catching her in her arms.  She sate down in the rocking chair, and held the woman upon her knees, her head lying on Margaret’s shoulder.  The other children, clustered together in affright, began to understand the mystery of the scene; but the ideas came slowly, for their brains were dull and languid of perception.  They set up such a cry of despair as they guessed the truth, that Margaret knew not how to bear it.  Johnny’s cry was loudest of them all, though he knew not why he cried, poor little fellow.

The mother quivered as she lay in Margaret’s arms.  Margaret heard a noise at the door.

‘Open it.  Open it quick,’ said she to the eldest child.  ’It’s bolted; make no noise—­be very still.  Oh, papa, let them go upstairs very softly and carefully, and perhaps she will not hear them.  She has fainted—­that’s all.’

‘It’s as well for her, poor creature,’ said a woman following in the wake of the bearers of the dead.  ’But yo’re not fit to hold her.  Stay, I’ll run fetch a pillow and we’ll let her down easy on the floor.’

This helpful neighbour was a great relief to Margaret; she was evidently a stranger to the house, a new-comer in the district, indeed; but she was so kind and thoughtful that Margaret felt she was no longer needed; and that it would be better, perhaps, to set an example of clearing the house, which was filled with idle, if sympathising gazers.