Mrs Jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously—perhaps not overmuch. Those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death at all. God had come and fetched her—that was what they said.
And the child was so manifestly fit to go—so evidently unfit to pass through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her gain.
No, Mrs Jenks was not mourning for Flo, but all the same she was troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her feet.
“’Tis only me, Mrs Jenks,” said Miss Mary Graham, taking off her snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on Flo’s little stool at one side of the fire.
“I thought you’d feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you.”
“Thank you, ma’am—yes—I’m missing the child and her dog, maybe. Anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing her back, I’m very low like. If I ’ad Scamp, poor fellow, he’d keep me up. It was ’ard he should come by such a bad end.”
“Oh! Mrs Jenks, it was not a bad end. It was quite a glorious closing of life for the fine old fellow—he died defending the one he loved best. And, do you know, I could not bear to have him here without her, he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she is now.”
“No, ma’am—that is true. He always lay close to her side, and curled up on the foot of her bed at night—and not a look nor a thought would he give me near her. And they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his death must ’ave come like a flash of lightning to him.”
“Yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone at Flo’s feet.”
Miss Mary paused—then, bending forward, she touched the widow’s arm.