I've given a good many glasses of new milk to his 'kiddie,' as he calls that little lad of his, so I expect I'm fairly in his favour." "I've never seen his 'kiddie,'" said Helmsley.

"What is the boy like ?" "A real fine little chap!" said Meg, with heartiness and feeling.

"I'm not a crank on children, seein' most o' them's muckers an' trouble from mornin' to night, but if it 'ad pleased the Lord as I should wed, I shouldn't 'a wished for a better specimen of a babe than Tom's kiddie.
Pity the mother died!" "When the child was born ?" queried Helmsley gently.
"No--oh no!"-- and Meg's eyes grew thoughtful.

"She got through her trouble all right, but 'twas about a year or eighteen months arterwards that she took to pinin' like, an' droopin' down just like the poppies droops in the corn when the sun's too fierce upon 'em.

She used to sit by the roadside o' Sundays, with a little red handkerchief tied across her shoulders, and all her dark 'air tumblin' about 'er face, an' she used to look up with her great big black eyes an' smile at the finicky fine church misses as come mincin' an' smirkin' along, an' say: 'Tell your fortune, lady ?' She was the prettiest creature I ever saw--not a good lass--no!--nobody could say she was a good lass, for she went to Tom without church or priest, but she loved him an' was faithful.