“I dreamed all night of her,” responded Luiza. “I thought she had come back to life again. How horrible it was!”
“You need have no uneasiness on that score,” returned Julião. “Have they prepared her for burial yet?” turning to Jorge.
“Sebastião is there,” answered Jorge, “and I am going now to take a look at things.”
The death of old parchment was already known in the neighborhood. The woman who had laid her out—a matron deeply pitted with the small-pox, with eyes reddened by the abuse of spirituous liquors—was an acquaintance of the Senhora Helena. She had stood a moment in the sunshine chatting with her at the door of the tobacco-shop.
“Is there much business, Senhora Margarida?”
“A good deal, a good deal,” replied the other in a husky voice. “In winter there is always more to do. But they are all old people, who drop off with the cold. There is not a pretty corpse among them.”
The Senhora Margarida, it will be seen, had artistic tastes.
The tobacconist related many particulars to her regarding Juliana,—the favors shown her by her master and mistress, her airs, and the luxury she enjoyed of having a matted room. The Senhora Margarida responded that she was amazed by what she heard. And who would have it all now? she asked. “But I must dress that doll,” she ended, going into the house with an air of compunction. The priest was there conversing in a husky voice with Sebastião about agriculture, drainage, and grafting, and passing his folded handkerchief from time to time under his nose with his hairy hand. All the windows were open to the pleasant warmth of the sun, and the canaries were twittering in their cages.
“Had the deceased been long in the family?” asked the priest of Jorge, who was walking up and down the parlor, smoking.
“Three years.”