“Sartain sure!”
“You didn’t ask no one to get it?”
“Never mentioned a word to a livin’ bein’.” Lilac stared thoughtfully at the cobbler, who had now gone back to his little shed and was hard at work.
“P’r’aps, then,” she said, “’twarn’t you neither who sent Mother’s cactus down to the farm?”
“Similarly,” replied he, “it certainly was not; so you’ve got more friends than you reckoned for, you see.”
Lilac stood in the doorway, her bonnet dangling in one hand, her eyes fixed absently on Joshua’s brown fingers.
“I made sure,” she said, “as how it was you. I couldn’t think as there was anybody else to mind.”
It was getting late. Without looking at the clock she knew that her holiday would soon be over, because through Joshua’s little window there came a bright sun beam which was never there till after five. She tied on her bonnet, prepared a choice morsel of chicken for Mrs Wishing, and set out on her further journey after a short farewell to the cobbler. Joshua never liked saying goodbye, and did it so gruffly that it might have sounded sulky to the ear of a stranger, but Lilac knew better. She had a “goodish step” before her, as she called it to herself, and if she were to get back to the farm before dusk she must make haste. So she hurried on, and soon in the distance appeared the two little white cottages side by side, perched on the edge of the steep down. The one in which she had lived with her mother was empty, and as she got close to it and stopped to look over the paling into the small strip of garden, she felt sorry to see how forlorn and deserted it looked. It had always been so trim and neat, and its white hearthstone and open door had invited the passer-by to enter. Now the window shutters were fastened, the door was locked, the straggling flowers and vegetables were mixed up with tall weeds and nettles—it was all lifeless and cold. It was a pity. Mother would not have liked to see it. Lilac pushed her hand through the palings and managed to pick some sweet-peas which were trailing themselves helplessly about for want of support, then she went on to the next gate. Poor Mrs Wishing was very lonely now that her only neighbour was gone; very few people passed over that way or came up so far from Danecross. Sometimes when Dan’l had a job on in the woods he was away for days and she saw no one at all, unless she was able to get to the cobbler’s cottage, and that was seldom. Lilac knocked gently at the half-open door, and hearing no answer went in.
Mrs Wishing was there, sitting asleep in a chair by the hearth with her head hanging uncomfortably on one side; her dress was untidy, her hair rough, and her face white and pinched. Lilac cast one glance at her and then looked round the room. There were some white ashes on the hearth, a kettle hanging over them by its chain, and at Mrs Wishing’s elbow stood an earthenware teapot, from which came a faint sickly smell; and when Lilac saw that she nodded to herself, for she knew what it meant. The next moment the sleeper opened her large grey eyes and gazed vacantly at her visitor.
“It’s me,” said Lilac. “It’s Lilac White.”