She took the lamp and went in. It seemed to Dil as if she would even now shake her fist at Bess, and the child stood with bated breath.
“She were a purty little thing, Dil,” the mother said with a softened inflection. “Me sister Morna had yellow hair an’ purplish eyes, and was that fair an’ sweet, but timid like. I believe me mother had some such hair, but the rest of us had black. She looks raile purty, an’ makes a better corpse than I iver thought. Why didn’t ye lit thim see her, Dil? Ye’s needn’t a been shamed of her.”
Dil was saved from answering by the advent of a throng of neighbors. The room seemed so warm, and there was such a flurry, she dropped on the lounge faint and breathless.
“Go to bed, Dan,” said his mother.
Dil rose again and opened the door. The cold air, close and vile as it was, felt grateful.
“Go up-stairs a bit in Mrs. Murphy’s;” and though the permission was a command, Dil went gratefully.
Mrs. Murphy sat sewing to make up for lost time. Her little girl was asleep in the cradle. She had improved since cooler weather had set in. The door of one room was shut. The old chintz-covered Boston rocker was empty.
“I couldn’t stay to see them all lookin’ at her,” she exclaimed tremulously, as she almost tottered across the room.
“No, dear.” Mrs. Murphy took her in her arms. “Ye look like a ghost. But Bess is main pritty, an’ it’s a custom. Will ye sit here?”
Dil shuddered as she looked at the empty chair where Mrs. Bolan used to sit.