"Is my mudda dead?"
The question was so direct that she felt it deserved a direct answer.
"Yes, dear."
"Did she"—he pulled himself together for the big words—"did she take cyanide of potassium?"
"Yes, dear; so I understand."
"Will they take her away in a long black box?"
"She'll be buried, dear, of course. There'll have to be a funeral somewhere."
"Can I go to it?"
"Yes, dear, certainly. I'll go with you myself."
He said nothing more, and Miss Honiton felt the futility of trying to comfort him. There was no opening for comfort in that stony little face. All she could suggest to break the tension was to ask if he wouldn't like his supper.