“And here’s the milk, all nice and cold. If it would please you to drink a little of that!”
She half-lifted the little figure in her arms and held her so while the girl let the cool milk run down her hot throat. Jim noticed that when she lay down again, she took the edge of ma’s apron between her fingers and held on to it. Jim understood why. He felt just like doing that himself.
“My little girl that died,” said ma, still in that soft, cooing voice, “had yellow hair. Yours is brown, but it’s just as pretty.”
The girl twisted ma’s apron in and out around her fingers; she could think of nothing to say.
“My little Molly’s eyes was blue, but yours is just the color of Job’s tears.”
“Job’s tears?” asked the girl. “What are they, please ma’am?”
“You don’t know what Job’s tears be, honey? Why they’re the prettiest little things—sort of beans, they be—and folks dries and strings ’em. Jimmy, you fetch that string from the bureau.”
Jim brought the string of softly polished gray beadlike things, and Ma McBirney slipped them softly over the girl’s head.
“They just match your eyes, honey. You must wear them to remember me by!”
“Thank you, ma’am. But I’ll remember you anyway. You’ll be taking care of mamma for me.”