“Yes,” said Elizabeth, aghast.
“Are you the nurse?” the question was put with feverish eagerness.
“No, but perhaps I can do something to make you more comfortable.”
The old woman began to cry loudly like a child.
“No, there ain’t. He’s been after me again, tormentin’ me an’ tauntin’ me.”
“Who’s been after you?”
“My son. He wants the forty dollars what is all I have in this yearth, to buy him a gun, an’ I want it to bury me. I want to be buried decent with a preacher an’ the singin’ of psalms an’ prayin’ to carry me away from this yearth. He can’t get it now, but he can get it when I’m dead.” She began to scream, “I want to be buried decent! I want to be buried decent!”
Elizabeth went nearer to the dreadful bed.
“Why don’t you make a will?”
“Learnin’ is the possession of some, but not of none in the mountains,” said the old woman. She began to cry again.