She was a just child. She went upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked her wardrobe, and took out the doll, which was clad in blue silk, and reposed in a dog-trough lined with the same material. Honoria had recklessly cut up two handkerchiefs (for underclothing) and her Sunday sash, and had made the garments in secret. They were prodigies of bad needlework. With the face of a Medea she stripped the poor thing, took it in her arms as if to kiss it, but checked herself sternly. She descended to the terrace with the doll in one hand and its original calico smock in the other.
“There, take your twopenny baby!”
Lizzie caught and strained it to her breast; covered its poor nakedness hurriedly, and hugged it again with passionate kisses.
“You silly! Did you come all this way by yourself?”
Lizzie nodded. “Father thinks I’m home, minding the house. He’s off duty this evening, and he walked over here to the Bryanite Chapel, up to Four Turnings. There’s going to be a big Prayer Meeting to-night. When his back was turned I slipped out after him, so as to keep him in sight across the towans.”
“Why?”
“I’m terrible timid. I can’t bear to walk across the towans by myself. You can’t see where you be—they’re so much alike—and it makes a person feel lost. There’s so many bones, too.”
“Dead rabbits.”
“Yes, and dead folks, I’ve heard father say.”
“Well, you’ll have to go back alone, any way.”