“Oh! Janey,” said Flo, with a great gasp of longing, “wouldn’t it be nice to be dead?”
This corroboration of her desire startled Janey into quiet, and into a subdued—
“What, Flo Darrell?”
“To be dead, Janey, and ’avin’ a good time?”
“Well,” said Janey, recovering herself with a laugh, “wen I’m down haltogether in the dumps, as I wor a minute ago, I wishes fur it, but most times I ’ates the bear thought o’ it—ugh!”
“That’s cause yer doesn’t know, Janey, no more nor I did till to-day. Plenty of wittles, plenty of clothes, plenty of pretty things, plenty of love, all in the good time as we poor folks have arter we are dead.”
Janey gave her companion an angry push.
“There now, ef yer ain’t more than hagriwating, a comin’ on me wid yer old game of s’posin’, and me fairly clemmed wid the ’unger. There’s no good time fur me, nor never will be, I reckon,” and she again lifted up her voice and wept.
“There’s Our—Father—chart—’eaven,” began Flo, but Janey stopped her.
“I don’t want ’im—one father’s too much fur me.” Flo was silent—she would tell no more of her sweet message to unbelieving ears.