’Phia laid the fast-stiffening body down on the couch and straightened the limbs, and drew the white dress down to the small, rigid feet.
Little Gloria stood by, clasping the woman’s skirts, and crying and sobbing as if her heart would burst.
When ’Phia had decently composed the small body, she went to the bell and rang it sharply, then she turned the key of the door and came back to her post.
She gazed for a moment on the poor, dead face, and then tenderly closed the eyes, keeping her fingers and thumb lightly pressed on the white lids.
Some one came running swiftly along the passage outside, tried the lock, and then rapped.
’Phia went and unlocked the door, holding it a few inches apart, to prevent the entrance of the new-comer.
There were but three servants in that reduced establishment—’Phia, her husband Laban, and her daughter Lamia.
It was the latter who had come to answer the bell.
“What does yer want, mammy?” inquired the girl, seeing that her mother barred her farther progress.
“You tell your daddy to run here right off. No nonsense, now; not to ’lay a minute, but to run here right off! Yer hear me, don’t yer?”