“Before God—and as you hope for peace at the last?”
The peddler bowed his head upon Lucy’s withered hand, and faltered out, “I promise.”
CHAPTER XVII.
“Good morning, Zekiel,” said John Pray. “Glad to see you—you must tell the old lady to go ahead and finish this pile of vests in a twinkling; business is brisk now. Why, what’s this?” said he. “These vests unfinished? How’s that? Don’t the pay suit? What’s the trouble now?”
“Don’t,” said Zekiel—“don’t—stop a bit—I’m as tough as any man—but there’s some things I can’t stand;” and he dashed a tear away.
“What’s the matter now?” asked John. “Is the old lady dissatisfied with her pay?”
“Don’t—I say,” said Zekiel;—“hold up—don’t harrow a man that way—she’s dead—I tell you stone dead. She never’ll make no more vests for nobody. I never shall forget what I saw there this morning, never.
“You see she was old and infirm, and wan’t fit to work for any body any how; but she had a little gran’child, fresh as a rose-bud, and she did it for her, you see. Well, this morning I harnessed the old gray horse—the black one is lame since Sunday—and reined up at her door, as usual, to get the bundle. I knocked, and nobody came; then I knocked again, then little rose-bud came tip-toeing to the door, with her finger on her pretty lip, so—and whispered, ‘grandma is asleep; she has not woke up this great while.’ So I said—‘You’d better speak to her and say, here’s Zekiel, come for the bundle, cause you know she is partiklar like about sending it.’ So the little rose-bud went up to the bed-side, and said—‘Grandma, here is Zekiel, come for the vests.’ The old lady didn’t say nothing, and rose-bud asked me to speak to her. I went up, and—John Pray—the old lady was stone dead, and how was I going to tell that to little rose-bud?”
“You don’t mean to tell me that the child was all alone with the corpse—nobody to see to the poor thing?” asked John.