Floy’s hands were clasped in her lap, cold beads of perspiration stood on her brow, her breath came pantingly, and her dilated eyes were fixed on the face of the narrator, who, however, was too busy brushing the crumbs off Sammy’s Sunday jacket to observe the look, but went on garrulously:
“Jack he carried her into the depot and laid her down on the settee; and while they were tryin’ to bring her to, an old gentleman (I disremember his name now) come in his covered wagon fur to git his son as was expected home from ’way off somewheres, but wasn’t there (he didn’t come till next day, Jack said), and the old gentleman he took the poor thing home with him.
“There, now, Sammy, hold still till I tie this hankercher round your neck. Them clo’es won’t be fit to be seen if you keep on droppin’ greasy crumbs over ’em.”
Floy was making a desperate effort to be calm.
“Where did he take her?” she asked, half concealing her agitated face behind the folds of her veil.
“Out to the old gentleman’s place; a splendid place they said it was. I can’t say just how fur off in the woods, where he’d cleared acres and acres of land. Jack never see her after she was took out there, but he said she didn’t die after all, but got married to the young feller that I told you was comin’ home on a visit to the old folks (I think they’d know’d each other afore she was married the first time, and kind a got separated somehow), and when she got about again he took her back with him, and I guess the old folks follered ’em after a bit.”
“Where, oh! where?” asked Floy imploringly.
The woman started and turned an earnest, inquiring gaze upon her.
“I beg pardon, but was they anything to you, miss?”
“I was the baby! and I’m looking for my mother. Oh, can you tell me where to find her?”