Again the drum beat just as Annie heard it. Another pressure of the hand, another burning kiss, another “good-bye, mother, don’t fret too much about us,” and then the last of the widow’s boys was gone.
Turn we now to the shanty-like building down by the mill, where the mother of Harry and Bill rocked to and fro upon the unmade bed, and rent the air with her dismal howls, hoping thus to win at least one tender word from the two youths, voraciously devouring the breakfast she, like Widow Simms, had been at so much pains to prepare, watching even through her tears to see “if they wan’t going to leave her one atom of the steak she had spent her yesterday’s earnings to buy.”
No they didn’t. Harry took the last piece, growling angrily at Bill, who, kinder hearted than his brother, suggested th
