The grave-digger straightened herself to her full height; brushing back her wind-blown hair with one grimy hand, she raised her face so that her deep-set eyes were fixed upon the questioner’s face.
“So you knew Delia Grimwet?” she said. “When was you here before? It’d go hard for you to make her out now, if it’s long since.”
“Is she here still?” Farnsworth persisted, ignoring her question.
“Yes,” the sexton replied, suddenly sinking back into the unfinished grave as a frightened animal might retreat into its den. “Yes; she lives in the old place.”
“Alone?”
“Her and the boy.”
He recoiled a step, as if the mention of a child startled or repelled him. Yet to a close observer it might have seemed as if he were making an effort to press her with further questions. If so his courage did not prove sufficient, and he watched in silence while the woman before him went steadily on with her arduous work. Presently, however, he advanced again toward the edge of the pit, which was rapidly approaching completion under her familiar labor.
“Should I find her at home at this time?” he inquired. “Or would she be out at work?”
The woman started and crouched, much as if she had received or expected a blow.
“She’s out, most likely,” she replied in a muffled voice. “She’ll be home along about sundown.”