The door opened suddenly and her mother entered. She was bristling with curiosity. “Say, Emarine!” She lowered her voice, although there was no one to hear. “Where d’ you s’pose the undertaker’s a-goin’ up by here? Have you hear of anybody——”
“No,” said Emarine. “Did Orville stop by an’ tell you to hurry up?”
“Yes. What’s the matter of him? Is he sick?”
“Not as I know of. Why?”
“He looks so. Oh, I wonder if it’s one o’ the Peterson childern where the undertaker’s a-goin’! They’ve all got the quinsy sore throat.”
“How does he look? I don’t see ’s he looks so turrable.”
“Why, Emarine Parmer! Ev’rybody in town says he looks so! I only hope they don’t know what ails him!”
“What does ail him?” cried out Emarine, fiercely. “What are you hintin’ at?”
“Well, if you don’t know what ails him, you’d ort to; so I’ll tell you. He’s dyin’ by inches ever sence you turned his mother out o’ doors.”
Emarine turned white. Sheet lightning played in her eyes.