“Stay, Mrs. Dillon!” said George, “we are both interested, deeply interested; tell us more about these young persons; we were taken by surprise and did not hear distinctly. Did one or both of these poor ladies recover?”
Mary Margaret sat down with the basket upon her knees.
“Was it one, or both, ye asked? Arrah, but I wish it was both, that I could tell ye of; but I saw one poor crathur carried out in a wooden coffin, wid two breadths of factory cotton on her for a shroud, and for all that she looked like a marble image, wid the raven black hair parted on her white for’ed, and the lids folded so could-like over her eyes, that had been black as stars and as bright as dimints.”
“Black eyes? Did you say that the poor girl who died had black eyes and hair?” exclaimed Louis.
“Black as midnight, yer honor, eyes and hair—more, by the token, I closed them two eyes mysel’, and the color sunk into my heart!”
The young men looked at each other almost wildly.
“This is very strange!” said George.
The lips of the younger brother were white as marble, and when he tried to answer, they gave forth no sound.
“And the one who lived?” said George, with increasing agitation,—“was she dark like the other?”
“Dark, did ye say? Why, her hair was like burning gold, and her eyes—the bluest bit of sky ye ever saw was nothing to ’em. Thin her face, it was white as a lily wid a taste of red just in the mouth and cheeks. She looked like a born beauty in spite of the narrow bed and checkered covering, the day I went out of the hospital, and followed me with her great lovin’ eyes all the way down the ward, as if she knew I was the friend to stand by her.”