“O Misses Murphy!” she shrieked, “there’s somethin’ strange come over Bess. She’s never been like this—an’ cold—”
“Yis, dear. I’ll jist look at poor Mis’ Bolan. She do be goin’ very fast. All night she was that res’les’ talkin’ of the beautiful hymn the man sung, an’ beggin’ him to sing it agen; an’ then hearin’ angels an’ talkin’ ’bout green fields an’ flowers, an’ where there do be no night. They do be mostly so at the last, rememberin’ beautiful things.”
An awful terror clutched Dil at the heart, as she recalled Bess’s talk of the wild roses. So cruel a fear smote her that her very tongue seemed paralyzed.
“You don’t mean”—she cried wildly.
Mrs. Murphy’s thoughts were running on Mrs. Bolan.
“She’ll not last the day through. Pore dear, there’s not much pleasure to the’r ould lives. But she did be so longin’ to have that man come agen—”
She had taken Dil’s hand, and they were going down-stairs. A baby had rolled off the lounge and bumped his head, and was screaming. But Dil hardly heard him. They went through to the tiny room.
“Ah, pore dear! Pore lamb! She’s gone, an’ she’s outen all her mis’ry. She’ll niver suffer any more. An’ she’s safe—”
Mrs. Murphy paused, not quite sure she could give that comfort. There was purgatory, and the poor thing had never been christened. She was extremely ignorant of her own church doctrine; but she felt the bitter injustice of condemning this poor soul to everlasting torment for her mother’s neglect.
“No, Misses Murphy,” cried Dil in the accent of utter disbelief, “she can’t be—Oh, hurry an’ do somethin’ for her. She’s jes fainted! Le’s get her warm agen. Bring her out to the fire, an’ I’ll run for the ’Spensary doctor. Oh, no, she isn’t—she wouldn’t—’cause we was goin’ to heaven together in the spring, an’ she couldn’t leave me without a word—don’t you see?”