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Mary Barton by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
page 13 of 595 (02%)
brother, and perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's none
more ready to help with heart or hand than she is. Though she may
have done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within the
street, but Alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up, too,
though may be she's to be at her work by six next morning."

"She's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson," was
Barton's reply; and then he added, "Thank you kindly for your offer,
and mayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'm
at work, and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See,
there's Mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance,
among a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lass of
thirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet her
father, in a manner that showed that the stern-looking man had a
tender nature within. The two men had crossed the last stile, while
Mary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn,
when an overgrown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss,
exclaiming, "For old acquaintance sake, Mary."

"Take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushing
rosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. The
tones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and the
aggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by
eighteen years of his little brothers.

"Here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each take
a baby, for if Wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired."

Mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl's
fondness for infants, and with some little foresight of the event
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