“’Tis just hevery think,” said the dying woman. “Arter hall my ’ard life, ’tis real comfa’ble to look back on. Remember, Dick and Flo, I dies trustin’ yer. You’ll never, wot hever ’appins, be jail-birds—promise me that?”
“Never, mother,” said Flo, kissing her and weeping; and Dick promised, and kissed her, and wept also, and then the two children climbed up on the bed and lay down one at each side of her, and the poor dying woman closed her eyes and was cheered by their words.
“Is you dying to-night, mother?” asked Flo, gazing with awe at her clammy cold face.
“Yes, dearie.”
“Where’ll you be to-morrer, then, mother?”
A shadow passed over the peaceful, ignorant face, the brown eyes, so like her little daughter’s, were opened wide.
“Oh! I doesn’t know—yes, it be werry dark, but I guess it ’ull be all right.” Then after a pause, very slowly, “I doesn’t mind the grave, I’d like a good bit o’ a rest, for I’m awful—awful tired.”
Before the morning came the weary life was ended, and Dick and Flo were really orphans.
Then the undertaker’s men came, and a coffin was brought, and the poor, thin, worn body was placed in it, and hauled up by ropes into the outer world, and the children saw their mother no more.
But they remembered her words, and tried hard to fight out an honest living for themselves.