She rose and covered the face again, and went round to the old lady, and held her still, and stayed her little wailings. The woman wiped from her cheeks the few tears of old age, and pushed her grey hair smooth under the velvet network.
“Where are all his things?” asked mother.
“Eh?” said the old lady, lifting up her ear.
“Are all his things here?” repeated mother in a louder tone.
“Here?”—the woman waved her hand round the room. It contained the great mahogany bedstead naked of hangings, a desk, and an oak chest, and two or three mahogany chairs. “I couldn’t get him upstairs; he’s only been here about a three week.”
“Where’s the key to the desk?” said my mother loudly in the woman’s ear.
“Yes,” she replied—“it’s his desk.” She looked at us, perplexed and doubtful, fearing she had misunderstood us. This was dreadful.
“Key!” I shouted. “Where is the key?”
Her old face was full of trouble as she shook her head. I took it that she did not know.
“Where are his clothes? Clothes” I repeated pointing to my coat. She understood, and muttered, “I’ll fetch ’em ye.”