dead?”
“God knows you are right, master,” she returns. “I am not. I’d stand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any pretty lady.”
“Then don’t talk in that wrong manner,” says Mr. Bucket, mollified again. “Why do you do it?”
“It’s brought into my head, master,” returns the woman, her eyes filling with tears, “when I look down at the child lying so. If it was never to wake no more, you’d think me mad, I should take on so. I know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers—warn’t I, Jenny?—and I know how she grieved. But look around you at this place. Look at them,” glancing at the sleepers on the ground. “Look at the boy you’re waiting for, who’s gone out to do me a good turn. Think of the children that your business lays with often and often, and that you see grow up!”