All this wasn't told me at the time. It came later to my hearing.
They couldn't keep mother from the funeral; not Mr. Baitson, nor anybody. Go she would; and when they tried to hinder, a fierce look came into her eyes. Mr. Baitson said the excitement of being stopped might be worse for her than being let to go; and he gave in.
She didn't shed a tear, all through the Service, nor by the grave. Some hoped she might; but she didn't.
By the time a fortnight was over, I was getting better, and Mr. Baitson used to let me sit up for an hour or two, by way of change. Then Mary got me downstairs; but it was when mother had gone out.
"How soon am I to see mother again?" I said at last to Mary.
"Are you fit for it yet?" said she.
"I don't see why not," I said. I had a sort of hopeless feeling, as if I never should care much about anything again, one way or another. But of course things had to be got through.
"I'm afraid it will give you pain. She isn't like herself yet."
"Will she be—ever?" I asked. "Will she always be vexed with me?"
"It is not exactly being vexed," Mary answered.