She turned and went to her own room, began to pick up the things and tidy it, spread the cot, shook the cushion of the poor dilapidated wagon, carefully laid over it the blanket she had taken so much pains to make.
“Mrs. Minch,” she said, “will you please bring Bess in here. Mammy wouldn’t like her there. An’ I want her here—on my bed.”
Mrs. Minch looked at her in surprise. The face was rigid and unresponsive, but there was an awesome, chilling sorrow in every line. She reverently obeyed Dil’s behest.
“You are very good. You see, no one cared ’bout her but jes’ me an’ Patsey an’”—Ah, what would John Travis say? “An’ I want to keep her here.”
“My dear, dear child—”
She put away the kindly hands, not ungently, but as if she could not quite bear them—as if she was too sore for any human touch.
“How did I come to sleep so long?” she asked, in a strained, weary tone.
“You were so tired, poor dear. The doctor was in, and he said it was the best thing for you. Mrs. Murphy has been in and out, and Mrs. Carr.”
“You took care of the babies?” Her lips quivered, and a few big tears rolled down her cheeks. She could suffer, if the time to sorrow had not yet come.
“Yes, dear. I don’t see how you get along so with them. And do you feel better?”