"Did he leave yuh money?" he asked suddenly.
"Nuthin' she said, "nuthin'," with a bitterness which he did not ask an explanation of. "I been washin' iver since. These thurty years I been bendin' over tubs. Thurty years!"
"P'raps yuh put somethin' by?" he insinuated.
"Niver a cint," she said. "I 'd John's children to raise whin m' own was gone. An' that came terrible hard on me, terrible hard. Poor gurls, I didn't begrudge thim the work. I edacated thim so 's they both got good men. An' they sinds me a dollar now an' thin, God bless thim. They ain't rich—not thim. They 'd hilp their ol' aunt if they was."
He turned the fine-cut in his cheek, staring across the sunlight under eyelids that had wrinkled in the glare of alkali deserts.
"'T was easy enough, easy enough, thim times," she said. "But now I ain't got th' ambition to take heavy pieces, an' my sight 's bad. I don't get the clothes cleaned no more."
He did not speak.
"Well, well," she concluded. "What matter? Sure, what matter?" and twisted her hand in her bundle. "Good-day, sur." She got slowly to her feet.
He reached a hand to her arm, and stood beside her. "I 'll carry that," he said gruffly.
The unexpected kindness flustered her. "Not a bit of it," she protested, as he took the bundle from her. "There 's no need, man. 'T is no weight at all.… Well, well; thank yeh, sur. The kindness o' some
