functions not assigned
to him so far.

"Is the child killed, man? Say what you know!" Thus Mr. Alibone
brusquely. For he has caught a question Uncle Moses just found voice
for:--"Killed or not?"

The old watchman is beginning slowly:--"That I would not undertake to
say, sir...." when he is cut off short by Mrs. Riley, anxious to attest
any pleasant thing, truly if possible; but if otherwise, anyhow!--"Kilt
is it? No, shure thin! Insinsible." And then adds an absolutely
gratuitous statement from sheer optimism:--"Shure, I hur-r-d thim say so
mesilf, and I wouldn't mislade ye, me dyurr. Will I go and till his
mother so for ye down the Court? To till her not to alarrum hersilf!"

But by this time Uncle Moses had rallied. The momentary qualm had been
purely physical, connected with something that a year since had caused a
medical examination of his heart with a stethoscope. He had been too
great an adept in the art of rallying after knock-down blows in his
youth to go off in a faint over this. He had felt queer, for all that.
Still, he declined Mrs. Riley's kindly meant offer. "Maybe I'll make the
best job of it myself," said he. "Thanking you very kindly all the
same, ma'am!" After which he and his friend vanished back into Sapps
Court, deciding as they went that it would be best to persuade Aunt
M'riar to remain at home, while they themselves went to the Hospital, to
learn the worst. It would never do to leave Dolly alone, or even in
charge of neighbours.

Mrs. Riley's optimism lasted till Uncle Moses and Mr. Alibone
disappeared, taking with them Dolly, aware of something terrible afoot;
too small to understand the truth, whatever it was; panic-stricken and
wailing provisionally to be even with the worst. Then, all reason for
well-meaning falsehood being at an end, the Irishwoman looked facts in
the face with the resolution that never flinches before the mishaps of
one's fellow-man, especially when he is a total stranger.

"The power man!" said she. "He'll have sane the last of his little boy
alive, only shure one hasn't the harrut to say the worrd. Throubles make
thimsilves fast enough without the tilling of thim, and there'll be
manes and to spare for the power payple to come to the knowledge without
a worrd from you or me, Mrs. Tapping."

Then said Mrs. Tapping, on the watch for an opening through which she
could thrust herself into the conversation; as a topic, you
understand:--"Now there, Mrs. Riley, you name