“Yes; and somebody else too as could have been dispensed with. There’s another mouth to feed.”
“No, there ain’t,” cried a woman’s voice just behind him. Jane recognised the speaker, a Mrs. Griffin, who lived in the house and was neighbourly to Pennyloaf.
“There ain’t?” inquired Bob, gruffly.
“The child’s dead.”
“Thank goodness for that, any way!”
Mrs. Griffin explained to Jane that the birth had taken place twelve hours ago. Pennyloaf was “very low,” but not in a state to cause anxiety; perhaps it would be better for Jane to wait until tomorrow before seeing her.
“She didn’t say ‘thank goodness,’ ” added the woman, with a scornful glance at Bob, “but I don’t think she’s over sorry as it’s gone, an’ small blame to her. There’s some people as doesn’t care much what sort o’ times she has,—not meanin’ you, Miss, but them as had ought to care.”
Bob looked more disreputable than ever. His eyes were fixed on Jane, and with such a singular expression that the latter, meeting
