Miss Timpson, who had started violently when Mrs. Barnes entered, turned toward the latter a face as white, so Thankful described it afterward, “as unbleached muslin.” This was not a bad simile, for Miss Timpson's complexion was, owing to her excessive tea-drinking, a decided yellow. Just now it was a very pale yellow.
“Who is it?” she gasped. “Oh, it's you, Mrs. Barnes. It IS you, isn't it?”
“Me? Of course it's me. Have I changed so much in the night that you don't know me? What is it, Miss Timpson? Are you sick? Can I get you anything?”
“No, no. I ain't sick—in body, anyway. And nobody can get me anything this side of the grave. Mrs. Barnes, I'm going.”
“You're GOIN'? What? You don't mean you're dyin'?”
Considering her lodger's remarks of the previous evening, those relating to “going when the time came,” it is no wonder Thankful was alarmed. But Miss Timpson shook her head.
“No,” she said, “I don't mean that, not yet, though that'll come next; I feel it coming already. No, Mrs. Barnes, I don't mean that. I mean I'm going away. I can't live here any longer.”
Thankful collapsed upon a chair.
“Goin'!” she repeated. “You're goin' to leave here? Why—why you've just fixed up to stay!”
Miss Timpson groaned. “I know,” she wailed; “I thought I had, but I—I've changed my mind. I'm going to leave—now.”