Dil lay motionless, but for the faint breathing. The doctor listened with his ear down on her heart, felt her pulse, and seemed in a study.
“Let her sleep as long as she can. She has worn herself out. She used to wheel this one round,” nodding. “Have in some fresh air; the room is stifling. How any one lives—”
Dil roused without opening her eyes.
“Was it you, Bess? Oh, is it morning?”
“No, no; go to sleep again. The night’s just begun. She’s dead tired out,” to the women. “Let the mother come round when she can, and get rid of these young ones before the girl wakes. If there’s anything else wanted, send round. Are these people very poor?”
“Mrs. Quinn goes out washing. And the babies are taken in by the day. I don’t know”—doubtfully.
“The mother will settle that. And the old lady—the city must bury her, I suppose?”
“’Deed an’ it must. She’s had nothin’ but her pinshin, an’ has no folk.”
They found Bess’s nice white frock pinned up in a cloth, beautifully ironed and laid away in anticipation of the journey—the very journey she had taken so unknowingly. They put it on, and smoothed down the poor little legs with tender hands. Then they laid her on her mother’s bed until Dil should rouse.
Mrs. Minch brought up her sewing, while Mrs. Murphy went to her own room to look after Mrs. Bolan. Mrs. Carr, another neighbor, came in and helped with the babies, and wondered how Dilly Quinn had ever been able to do as much work as a hearty, grown woman, and she not bigger than a ten-year-old child!