“I’m feared that he’s waur than he says, and maybe winna get better,” she said, shedding tears freely as she spoke. “I’ve walkit every fit o’ the road, thinking I saw a coffin at the end o’ the way.” Cheering words and homely sympathy were showered upon her without stint, most of those present seeming to find their own troubles light beside what that slight woman had endured. “Is that your only bairn?” one asked, to which the mother replied— “Yes, and I thocht we wad baith a’ been frozen to death on the road. It was awfu’ caul’ last nicht; I never thocht we’d see morning.” “What? did ye sleep in the open air?” cried an old woman, holding up her hands. “I hadna a penny to pay a lodging; and I was tired and dune, and didna like to gang to a poorhouse,” was the choking answer. The old Irishwoman wiped her own eyes, and then I saw her slowly fumble in her own pocket and produce twopence, which she tried to slip into the hand of the baby. “Oh, no, no! No, thank ye,” cried the mother, in strong protest, and flushing painfully at the proffered help so thinly disguised. “I’m no needing that now; I’ve got money since then. There’s some kind folk in the world yet, and I’ve as muckle as take me to my mither’s after I see how my man is.” I did not hear the rest of her speech, for in putting back the proffered coppers she had thrown up the corner of the tartan shawl—turned it back with a whisk right under my eyes, and there I saw a wedge-shaped rent, as if a piece had been neatly torn out of the pattern near the edge. I was in a manner fascinated and horrified by the discovery, and stood staring at the torn shawl in a manner that must have looked idiotic in the extreme. “That’s a bonnie shawl you’ve got on your bairn,” I at length managed to say, by way of opening up a conversation. “The bairn’s bonnier than the shawl,” one woman hastened to add, “but that’s aye a man’s way o’ looking at things. The brightest colours catch his e’e first.” “Have you had it long?” I continued to the mother. “He’ll be eleven months next week,” she answered, with a look of pride. “I don’t mean the bairn—the shawl,” I said in correction. “Oh, no, not long,” she answered frankly; and then she appeared to catch herself up, and said no more. “You’ve torn it a little there,” I continued. “The bit seems to be taken clean out.” “Yes, I noticed that,” she quietly answered. She did not seem to like me or my remarks—just when she was becoming so interesting to me, too! “Would you mind turning back the corner of the shawl again for a moment—just to oblige me?” I continued, in no ways abashed by her coldness.