The black woman laughed. “Who do I tell that to? Ha . . . that’s a good ’un. Why, dearie, my patients, of course.”
“I don’t understand. . . . What sort of patients?”
“Well, Mr. Inquisitive, if you must know, I’m a monthly nurse.”
Still Edwin did not understand. He asked,—“Do many of them die?”
“Why, bless my heart, no. It’s more a matter of births than deaths. Not that I haven’t a’ seen deaths. And laid them out. But I’ll tell you something. It’s my belief that they all die happy. And though it’s hard on a young boy like you to lose his best friend—that’s his mother—it’s my belief that death is a happy release. Yes, a happy release. I always tell them that. Especially after a long illness. I wonder, has your dear mother been ill for a long time?”
Edwin thought. “Yes.”
“Perhaps,” said the black woman with relish, “Perhaps you could give me some idea of what she was suffering from and then I could tell you near enough.”
“I think,” said Edwin, “it was diabetes.”
“Diabetes . . . think of that! I’ve a’ had several with that. It’s a bad complaint. Very. I’m afraid I can’t give you the hopes that I’d like to.”
“But don’t they ever get better?” Edwin asked in agony. “I expect they do sometimes, don’t they?”