She nodded and muttered, “An’ I was his angel,” and the roses trembled in the firelight. “If you were a good boy, Matt,” she broke off, “you’d know where thet thar varse come from.”
“Hedn’t I better tell Harriet?” he asked.
“Acts, chapter eleven, verse fifteen,” muttered his mother. “It was the finger of God. What’s thet you say ’bout Harriet? Ain’t she finished tittivatin’ herself yet—with her father layin’ dead, too?” She got up and walked to the foot of the stairs. “Harriet!” she shrieked.
Harriet dashed down the stairs, neat and pretty.
“You onchristian darter!” cried Mrs. Strang, revolted by her sprightliness. “Don’t you know father’s drownded?”
Harriet fell half-fainting against the banister. Mrs. Strang caught her and pulled her towards the kitchen.
“There, there,” she said, “don’t freeze out here, my poor child. The Lord’s will be done.”
Harriet mutely dropped into the chair her mother drew for her before the stove. Daisy’s bellowing became more insistent.
“An’ he never lived to take me back to Halifax, arter all!” moaned Mrs. Strang.
“Never mind, mother,” said Harriet, gently. “God will send you back some day. You hev suffered enough.”