"You'd best be a-gittin' to bed, Bill," advised Aunt Abigail. "You can't do nothin' fer her, an' the rest of us'll set up."
Bill was sitting beside the woodbox, between the stove and the wall, apart from the three women. When Abigail spoke he cleared his throat, recrossed his legs, and said: "No, I guess I'll set."
They settled down to wait. Outside it was growing steadily colder. An icy wind was sweeping down from the north, whistling about the decayed old house, rattling window sashes and worming its way through every chink and crevice. It whispered eerily behind the ugly old wall paper and fluttered little loose fragments like struggling wings. Long dust webs clinging to the ceiling above the stove swung to and fro in the draught like clotheslines on a windy day. The loud, sonorous snoring sound filled the room and dominated the hushed voices of the woman about the stove. The little glass lamp threw its dim yellow light over the oilcloth-covered table, threw its dim reflection to the low ceiling and left the rest of the room in deep shadow. They sat waiting.
As the night wore on, the breathing of the dying woman grew gradually less noisy. The creeping cold crowded the three women more closely about the stove and the lid was often lifted to put in more wood.
Gradually the breathing grew fainter, so that it ceased to dominate the room and became scarcely audible even when listened for. The clock struck three slow strokes. Still the women huddled about the stove and Bill sat silently beside the woodbox and the scarcely heard breath fluttered on the lips of the dying woman.
Suddenly she gave a short, quick gasp. Aunt Abigail got up quickly and stood for a moment by the bedside, long enough to make sure that she was still breathing.
"If she lives past four," she said, turning away with a slight shade of disappointment, "she'll likely last another day. This is the time they most gener'ly go."
A movement passed almost imperceptibly through the group about the stove; but no one spoke.
"Waal, I'm ready to be took when my time comes," went on Aunt Abigail, coming back to her seat by the stove. "And when I'm gone it hain't a-goin' to be said of me that I didn't do my duty in times o' sickness an' death. I bin real bad lately with them liver spells I git, an' I was in the very midst o' puttin' up new paper on the front bedroom—it's a awful nice paper an' one that won't show dirt, a chocolate ground with kinder red flowers on it. But when Bill come a-drivin' over with word that Annie was down sick, I put my things right on an' come back with 'im. An' I hain't bin home sence."