“Yes, I can hear it. Don’t it sound nice?”
“Sounds nice? You are mad. They have to kill mad people or lock them up. And you say it sounds nice. Why, it sounds just like the wail my poor baby gave the night it died. That wail comes right from the grave. You never saw my baby’s grave, did you?”
“Your baby,” Blanche repeated, her curiosity aroused.
“Why, yes, my own little baby. You think I am telling you a crazy story, but you must come some day, when the sun shines, and see where she sleeps. Oh, she was 211 beautiful—a little angel, and she was all my own till God took her, and now she is out there under the ground. But I don’t believe the storm can get down where she is, do you, Miss Robin?”
“Oh, no,” Blanche answered, wondering why Bessie had given her such a name. “No, your baby is safe, I am sure; but you did not tell me your baby’s name.”
“No, no. I can’t tell you her name, but I will tell you all about him. You see I went away to boarding school, and it was while I was there I met him. I can’t begin to tell you how handsome he was.”
Miss Elsworth fancied she saw tears on Bessie’s long dark lashes, and the deep, fiery look in the eyes had given place to one of extreme sadness.
“Oh, you would not blame me if you knew—he was handsome—he said he loved me. He called me his little dove, and, oh, how happy I was to think that such a grand man should love me, a little schoolgirl. Hark, listen to the wind, how it moans, moans, moans, in such a sad, sad way, over my baby’s grave. Don’t you hear it?” she asked, coming closer to Blanche, and grasping her hand. “Don’t you hear it call my name? No, you do not hear my baby, for she is down deep under the ground, with the little dark rings of hair lying all about her little white face. You can’t see her, but I can, and I shall see her till I go there too.”
Miss Elsworth stroked the damp hair that clung around Bessie’s forehead.
“Poor girl,” she said.