Opening the book with stiff, cold fingers, Mary-Clare read softly, brokenly, the solemn words.
At the close Peneluna stood up.
“Him and me, Mary-Clare,” she said, “’fore God and you is husband and wife.” Then she removed the red rose from 79 her bonnet, laid it upon the folded wrinkled hands of the dead man and drew the sheet over him.
Just then, outside the window, a bird flew past, peeped in, fluttered away, singing.
“Seems like it might be the soul of Philander,” Peneluna said––she was crying as the old do, hardly realizing that they are crying. Her tears fell unheeded and Mary-Clare was crying with her, but conscious of every hurting tear.
“In honour bound, though it breaks the heart of me, I’m going to speak, Mary-Clare, then his poor soul can rest in peace.
“The Methodist parson, what comes teetering ’round just so often, always thought Philander was hell-bound, Mary-Clare; well, since there ain’t anyone but that parson as knows so much about hell, to send for, I’ve sent for him and there’s no knowing what he won’t feel called upon to say with Philander lying helpless for a text. So now, after I tell you what must be told, I want that you should read the burial service over Philander and then that parson can do his worst––my ears will be deaf to him and Philander can’t hear.”
There was a heavy pause while Mary-Clare waited.
“Hell don’t scare me nohow,” Peneluna went on; “seems like the most interesting folks is headed for it and I’ll take good company every time to what some church folks hands out. And, too, hell can’t be half bad if you have them you love with you. So the parson can do his worst. Philander and me won’t mind now.
“Back of the time we came here”––Peneluna was picking her words as a child does its blocks, carefully in order to form the right word––“me and Philander was promised.”