"
Babcock nodded. He knew how true it was.
"Ye've wondered many a time, maybe, that I niver brought him home
an' had him round wid me other poor cripple, Patsy--them two
togither." Her voice fell almost to a whisper.
"Or ye thought, maybe, it was mean and cruel in me that I kep' him
a burden on the State, when I was able to care for him meself.
Well, ye'll think so no more."
Babcock began to see now why he had been sent for. His heart went
out to her all the more.
"Tom, is your husband dead?" he asked, with a quiver in his voice.
She never took her eyes from his face. Few people were ever
tender with her; they never seemed to think she needed it. She
read this man's sincerity and sympathy in his eyes; then she
answered slowly:--
"He is, Mr. Babcock."
"When did he die! Was it last night, Tom?"
"Listen to me fust, an' then I'll tell ye. Ye must know that when
me Tom was hurted, seven years ago, we had a small place, an' only
three horses, and them warn't paid for; an' we had the haulin' at
the brewery, an' that was about all we did have. When Tom had
been sick a month--it was the time the bucket fell an' broke his
rib--the new contract at the brewery was let for the year, an'
Schwartz give it to us, a-thinkin' that Tom'd be round ag'in, an'
niver carin', so's his work was done, an' I doin' it, me bein' big
an' strong, as I always was.
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