He was tenderly
carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking
woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little,
feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother.
The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look
of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "Well, John, how goes it with
you?" and in a lower voice, he added, "Any news of Esther yet?"
Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft
and plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth
only fresh sobs from Mrs. Barton.
"Come, women," said John Barton, "you've both walked far enough. My
Mary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, Mrs.
Wilson, you know you are but a cranky sort of a body at the best of
times." This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken.
"Sit you down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and
you're neither of you nesh* folk about taking cold. Stay," he
added, with some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to
spread under you to save the gowns women always think so much on;
and now, Mrs.
Pages:
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30