"Say it," said Timmins, reverently; "it won't do her no good, but it will me."
"Our Father——"
"Got all through?" asked Mrs. Markham, throwing open the door; "that's all right. Now spread the sheet over her face—open the window—lock the door, and give me the key."
"Won't you come in, ma'am, and look at the child?" asked Watkins, stepping one side.
"No, it don't signify; you washed her and all that, I suppose. Come out, Timmins; and you, Watkins, run for the undertaker—the sooner the child is taken away the better; it is not healthy to have a corpse in the house," and Mrs. Markham applied her smelling-salts to her nose.
Watkins tied on her bonnet, and went sorrowfully down street for the undertaker.
CHAPTER VI.
Mr. Pall prided himself on the reverent manner in which he performed his necessary funereal duties. He always dressed in black, and sat, handkerchief in hand, in the middle of his coffin ware-room, in a prepared state of mind to receive customers.