"Now, I reckon you two are satisfied," said Mrs. Dawson, bitterly.
"Narry one of you hain't one bit o' feelin' ur pity."
Mrs. Slogan shrugged her shoulders, and Peter looked up regretfully,
and then with downcast eyes continued to pull silently at his pipe.
"I jest did what I ort to 'a' done," said Mrs. Slogan. "She ort to
know the truth, an' I tol' 'er."
"You could 'a' gone about it in a more human way," sighed Mrs. Dawson.
"The Lord knows the child's had enough to worry 'er, anyway. She's
been troubled fer the last week about him not comin' like he used to,
an' she'd a-knowed the truth soon enough."
An hour later supper was served, and though her aunt called to her that
it was on the table, Sally Dawson did not appear, so the meal passed in
unusual silence. The Slogans ate with their habitual zest, but the
little bent widow only munched a piece of bread and daintily sipped her
cup of buttermilk.
Presently they heard the rasping sound of Sally's door as it was drawn
open, and then they saw her go through the passage and step down into
the yard.
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