"There was that city boarder I took care of, the summer she gi'n out down here," went on Sabrina dreamily. "I liked her an' I liked her clo'es. They were real pretty. She see I liked 'em, an' what should she do when she went back home, but send me a blue silk wrapper all lace and ribbins, just like hers, only nicer. It's in that chist. I never've wore it. But if I should be taken away—I 'most think I'd like to have it put on me."
The cool summer dawn was flowing in at the window. The solemnity of the hour moved Clelia like the strangeness of the time. It hushed her to composure.
"I will," she promised. "If you should go before me, I'll do everything you want. Now you get some sleep."
But after Sabrina had shut her eyes and seemed to be drowsing off, she opened them to say, this time with an imperative strength:—
"But don't you let it spile their good time."
"Whose, Sabrina?"
"The doin's they're goin' to have in the hall. If I should go in the midst of it, don't you tell no more'n you can help. But I guess I can live through one day anyways."
That forenoon she was a little brighter, as one may be with the mounting sun, and Clelia, disregarding all entreaties to see the "doings" at the hall, took faithful care of her. But in the late afternoon while she sat beside the bed and Sabrina drowsed, there was a clear whistle very near. It sounded like a quail outside the window. Clelia flushed red. The sick woman, opening her eyes, saw how she was shaking.
"What is it, dear?" she asked.
"It's Richmond," said Clelia, in a full, moved voice. "It's his whistle."