I thought Josiah was asleep; but it seems he wuzn't, for he spoke out sort o' decided like,—
“Most probable it was the lamp.”
CHAPTER XIII.
It was a lovely mornin' about three weeks after Cicely's death. Josiah had to go to Jonesville to mill, and the boy wanted to go to; and so I put on his little cloak and hat, and told him he might go.
We didn't act cast down and gloomy before the boy, Josiah and me didn't. He had worried for his ma dretfully, at first. But we had made every thing of him, and petted him. And I had told him that she had gone to a lovely place, and was there a waitin' for him. And I would say it to him with as cheerful a face as I could. (I knew I could do my own cryin', out to one side.)
And he believed me. He believed every word I said to him. And he would ask me sights and sights of questions about “the place.”
And “if it was inside the gate, that uncle Josiah had read about,—that gate that was big and white, like a pearl? And if it would float down through the sky some day, and stand still in front of him? And would the gate swing open so he could see into the City? and would it be all glorious with golden streets, and shining, and full of light? And would his mamma Cicely stand just inside, and reach out her arms to him?—those pretty white arms.”
And then the boy would sob and cry. And I'd soothe him, and swaller hard, and say “Yes,” and didn't think it was wicked, when he would be a sobbin' so.