"Oh, I don't know," said Timmins. "Are you sure it was just as well for Tibbs to die alone? I hope I shan't die alone. Should you like to die alone, Mrs. Markham?"
"That has nothing to do with it," answered Mrs. Markham, angrily; "go along, Timmins, and don't make a fool of yourself."
"Poor thing! poor thing!" exclaimed Watkins, as she untied little Tibbs's night-dress to wash her thin limbs, "her sufferings are over. I tell you, Timmins, there'll be a long reckoning for this some day. I had rather be Tibbs here than Mrs. Markham. She isn't a sparrow's weight," said Watkins, lifting the child. "Was she sensible when she died, Timmins?"
"Don't ask me—don't ask me. Oh, Watkins, could I help it? I ran down to speak to Mrs. Markham, and—and—"
"She didn't die alone?" asked the horror-struck Watkins, laying the corpse back upon the pillow.
Timmins nodded her head, and sat rocking her figure to and fro.
"Now, don't say a word—don't say a word," said Timmins, "I know I shall be punished for it; but in deed I didn't mean no harm. I can't stay much longer in this house, Watkins."
Watkins made no reply, except by slow shakes of the head, as she drew on the little charity night-dress which was to answer for a shroud, smoothed the soft silken hair, and folded the small hands over the weary little heart.
"Do you know a prayer, Watkins?" asked Timmins, looking at the dead child.
"I know 'Our Father,'" replied Watkins, smoothing a fold in the shroud.