The woman in black, hearing the sobs, raised her veil and looked at him.
“What is it, my dear?” she said.
“Oh, nothing . . . nothing.”
“Folks don’t cry about nothing. . . .”
She spoke quite kindly, and her kindness was too much for him. It gave him quite an unaccountable feeling of relief to speak about it.
“It’s . . . it’s my mother,” he said.
“There now. . . . Is it really? That’s bad for ’ee. When did she pass away?”
“She isn’t dead. I . . . I hope she isn’t. But she’s awfully ill.”
“Don’t cry now, boy. While there’s life there’s hope. I always tells them that.”
“Who do you tell that to?”