Perhaps the story of the
starving old machinist had touched her; even Andy guessed how big and
childish the heart was in her woman's body, and how she always choked it
down. She had taken out the basket now that held the old man's lunch,
and was rearranging the slices of bread and ham, her fingers trembling,
and lingering curiously over each. Her lips moved, but she said nothing.
"Thy bread _is_ amazin' soft-crusted," said Mrs. Wart. "Thee scalds the
raisin', don't thee, now?"
"To-morrow, thee said, Andrew?"
"Yes, that'll be the end of the engine, for good or bad. Ten years he's
been at it, he says."
"Ten years, last spring," to herself.
She had put the basket down, and was stooping over the weeds.
"Did I tell ye that? I forgot. Well, Mis' Wart, we'll be off. Don't
fret, it's not late. Jerry's blooded. He'll not let the grass grow under
his feet."
And the milk-wagon, with its yellow letters, went trundling down the
road, the sun beginning to shine pleasantly in on the cool tin vessels
within, and the crisp red curls and blue eyes of the driver,--on the
lantern, too, swinging from the roof inside, as Andy glanced back.
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