The daughter looked at her for an explanation.
`But you are wet and tired: hungry and thirsty,' said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard; `and there's little here, and little'--diving down into her pocket, and jingling a few half-pence on the table--`little here. Have you any money, Alice, deary?'
The covetous, sharp, eager face with which she asked the question and looked on, as her daughter took out of her bosom the little gift she had so lately received, told almost as much of the history of this parent and child as the child herself had told in words.
`Is that all?' said the mother.
`I have no more. I should not have this, but for charity.'
`But for charity, eh, deary?' said the old woman, bending greedily over the table to look at the money, which she appeared distrustful of her daughter's still retaining in her hand, and gazing on. `Humph! six and six is twelve, and six eighteen --so--we must take the most of it. I'll go buy something to eat and drink.'
With greater alacrity than might have been expected in one of her appearance--for age and misery seemed to have made her as decrepit as ugly--she began to occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on her head, and folding a torn shawl about herself: still eyeing the money in her daughter's hand, with the same sharp desire.
`What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother?' asked the daughter. `You have not told me that.'
`The joy,' she replied, attiring herself, with fumbling fingers, `of no love at all, and much pride and hate, my deary. The joy of confusion and strife among 'em, proud as they are, and of daughter-danger, Alice!'
`What danger?'
`I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know!' chuckled the mother. `Let some look to it. Let some be upon their guard. My gal may keep good company yet!'
Then, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with which her daughter regarded her, her hand involuntarily closed upon the money, the old woman made more speed to secure it, and hurriedly added, `but I'll go buy something; I'll go buy something.'
As she stood with her hand stretched out before her daughter, her daughter, glancing again at the money, put it to her lips before parting with it.
`What, Ally! Do you kiss it?' chuckled the old woman. `That's like me--I often do, Oh, it's so good to us!' squeezing her own tarnished halfpence up to her bag of a throat, `so good to us in everything but not coming in heaps!'
`I kiss it, mother,' said the daughter, `or I did then--I don't know that I ever did before--for the giver's sake.'
`The giver, eh, deary?' retorted the old woman, whose dimmed eyes glistened as she took it. `Aye! I'll kiss it for the giver's sake, too, when the giver can make it go farther. But I'll go spend it, deary. I'll be back directly.'
`You seem to say you know a great deal, mother,' said the daughter, following her to the door with her eyes. `You have grown very wise since we parted.'
`Know!' croaked the old woman, coming back a step or two, `I know more than you think. I know more than he thinks, deary, as I'll tell you by and bye. I know all about him.'