"Can't ye speak?" she said, in a voice in which anger and rising apprehension were struggling. "Where's the boy? Kate, what is it?"
She had caught hold of the rail, as if in fear of falling. The woman addressed said hesitatingly:—
"Did ye never hear, Mame? Ain't no one tole ye?"
"Tole me what?" cried the other, shrilly. "They tole me nothing. What's wrong? Good God! 'tain't nothin' with the child?" She shook the other in sudden anger. "Speak, Kate, can't you?"
"Will is dead," said Kate, slowly, thus urged. "It's nine weeks come Sunday that he fell out o' the winder and was kilt. They buried him from the Morgue. We thought you knowed."
Stunned by the blow, the woman had sunk upon the lowest step and buried her face in her hands. She sat there with her shawl drawn over her head, as one by one the neighbors went inside. One lingered; it was the one they had called Kate.
"Mame," she said, when the last was gone, touching her on the shoulder—"Mame!"
An almost imperceptible movement of the head under its shawl testified that she heard.
"Mebbe it was for the best," said Kate, irresolutely; "he might have took after—Tim—you know."
The shrouded figure sat immovable, Kate eyed it in silence, and went her way.