“Oh, I wisht we wasn’t ever going home,” sighed Bess. “If I had two good legs we’d run away like that Mullin girl. An’ now that I’ve got some clo’es, I’m sorry we can’t go right off. Nex’ spring—how many months, Dil?”
August was almost ended. Seven long, weary months at the best.
“There’s Thanksgivin’ an’ Christmas, an’—an’ St. Patrick’s; that’s in March, I know. An’ after that it gen’ally comes warm. Oh, it seems as if I couldn’t wait! But the man will come with Christiana, an’ then we’ll find how to go without gettin’ lost or makin’ a mistake. Ain’t it queer? I should think everybody’d want to go.”
The big eyes were full of wonder.
“Well, you see the people who have money an’ things an’ flowers an’ journeys an’ live in grand houses don’t need to be in a hurry. ’Tain’t of so much account to them. An’ I guess people haven’t got the straight of it, someway.”
Poor Dil! She wasn’t very straight in her own mind. If God could give people so much, why didn’t he do it now? Or if they had to go to heaven for it, why wasn’t it made plain, and you could be let to start whenever you desired?
Bess’s confidence gave her a curiously apprehensive feeling. Suppose there wasn’t any heaven? The mystery was incomprehensible.
It was late when they reached home. Oh, the sickening heat and smells! But at this hour on Saturday night the court was comparatively quiet. The revelry began later.
Dan sat on the stoop crying. He had been in a fight, and the under dog at that, and had one black eye, and his jacket torn to ribbons.