" When she found that I wished to know
something of her condition--although this was already well known to
the gentleman who accompanied me--she began to tell her story in a
simple, off-hand way. "Aw've had nine childer," said she; "we'n
buried six, an' we'n three alive, an' aw expect another every day."
In one corner there was a rickety little low bedstead. There was no
bedding upon it but a ragged kind of quilt, which covered the
ticking. Upon this quilt something lay, like a bundle of rags,
covered with a dirty cloth. "There's one o' th' childer, lies here,
ill," said she. "It's getten' th' worm fayver." When she uncovered
that little emaciated face, the sick child gazed at me with wild,
burning eyes, and began to whine pitifully. "Husht, my love," said
the poor woman; "he'll not hurt tho'! Husht, now; he's noan beawn to
touch tho'! He's noan o'th doctor, love. Come, neaw, husht; that's a
good lass!" I gave the little thing a penny, and one way and another
we soothed her fears, and she became silent; but the child still
gazed at me with wild eyes, and the forecast of death on its thin
face.
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