That night I sat up with my mother until three o'clock, when Josey relieved me. My mother did not know me, and although I strove hard to make her recognise me, her eyes dwelt on my face as they would have done on the face of a stranger. What pain and grief this brought to me I cannot describe.
There was something different in the arrangement of the room, and I made a remark concerning it to Josey. The room was clearer, lighter. Josey explained it to me in a sharp tone, as though she desired not to be questioned.
'The doctor said the room must be made as airy as possible; he doesn't want a lot of lumber about.'
But the next morning it occurred to me that the box in which Jessie kept her clothes and nicknacks had been taken out of the room. I looked about the house for it, but could not find it.
'Where is Jessie's box, Josey?' I asked.
'Gone,' was the short and snappish reply.
'Gone where?'
'Well, I suppose you must be told. While you were away yesterday, Jessie sent for it.'
'Then you know where she is,' I cried excitedly, jumping to my feet, and tearing off my working-coat.
'Yes, I know where she is.'