He nodded, and Lucy glanced with a perplexed look from him to Joyce.
"Seems like you're both doing this, and I ought to thank you both," she said. "I was feeling pretty bad before you come in. I couldn't see nothing ahead but to put the children in a Home and go out to service, and—and it 'most killed me!" her lips quivering anew.
Joyce smiled and took her hand.
"Thank him," she said, with a glance up into his eyes. "But you can keep a few kind thoughts for me too, Lucy. I will take it upon myself to attend to your mourning, as I said."
"And you won't forget the veil, Miss Lavillotte?"
"No indeed!" smiling down into the eager young face. "But Lucy"—she bent closer, to speak just above a whisper—"I'm going to poor Nate, now. Have you no kind message to send to him?"
"No, no!" came out sharply, like a suppressed shriek. "He did it! How could I?"
"But to help you, child. It is terrible, I know, and I will not press the matter if it is more than you can bear to speak of it. But, surely, you feel that what Nate did was not intentional? He was shielding you, defending you. Oh, Lucy I would not arraign your father, but I can't help pitying poor Nate, who has been such a friend to you!"
Lucy turned abruptly and went towards the fire, where she stood a moment, shivering perceptibly, a desolate little figure. Soon she raised her head, flung a glance towards Mrs. Hemphill, whose watchful eyes were gloating over the scene, then with a beckoning look towards Joyce walked to the back door. Joyce instantly followed her, leaving her escort in low-toned talk with the undertaker.
"I can't say a word before her," whispered Lucy with a backward jerk of her thumb, "she tattles so! Nate used to tell me not to. But about—I—I can't send no word. He killed my father? Don't you see? He killed my father."