“Ay, poor fellow—he’s gone, missis,” and the old lady shook her head. Then she looked at us curiously, leaned forward, and, putting her withered old hand on my mother’s arm, her hand with its dark blue veins, she whispered in confidence, “and the candles ’as gone out twice. ’E wor a funny feller, very funny!”
“I must come in and settle things—I am his nearest relative,” said my mother, trembling.
“Yes—I must ’a dozed, for when I looked up, it wor black darkness. Missis, I dursn’t sit up wi’ ’im no more, an’ many a one I’ve laid out. Eh, but his sufferin’s, Missis—poor feller—eh, Missis!”—she lifted her ancient hands, and looked up at my mother, with her eyes so intensely blue.
“Do you know where he kept his papers?” asked my mother.
“Yis, I axed Father Burns about it; he said we mun pray for ’im. I bought him candles out o’ my own pocket. He wor a rum feller, he wor!” and again she shook her grey head mournfully. My mother took a step forward.
“Did ye want to see ’im?” asked the old woman with half timid questioning.
“Yes,” replied my mother, with a vigorous nod. She perceived now that the old lady was deaf.
We followed the woman into the kitchen, a long, low room, dark, with drawn blinds.
“Sit ye down,” said the old lady in the same low tone, as if she were speaking to herself:
“Ye are his sister, ’appen?”