“You are wicked and heartless to tell me I cannot see him once before he is buried! I defy you! I will go!” she cried, with a passion of which madame had not believed her capable.
The dark, dreamy eyes flashed defiance out of the deadly, pale face, alarming Madame Barto so that she snatched up Jessie’s clothing and bore them away in triumph, exclaiming:
“There, now, I don’t think you will run off to Fifth Avenue in your nightgown, miss!”
And, locking the door on the outside, she left the poor girl to her fate, forgetting that in Jessie’s closet there still remained hanging the cheap, threadbare garments she had worn when she came.
But Jessie remembered, and she quickly put them on again, the torn calico gown, the broken shoes, the old sailor hat—then she drew aside the curtain and looked out, starting to find that the gray November day was near its close and the sky overcast with threatening snow clouds.
How long it seemed since yesterday! He had been twenty-four hours dead.
Dead! Oh, how impossible it seemed for such youth and strength and beauty to be so quickly annihilated. His kiss still burned like fire on her lips and thrilled warmly through her veins.
“Oh, I must see him once again!” she sobbed, and pushed up the sash and measured the distance to the ground with frantic eyes.
It was only a story and a half, and a neglected awning rope fortunately hung from her own window. With a low cry of joy, Jessie caught it and knotted it to the window shutter. When it grew a little darker she climbed up into the window and swung herself out, tremblingly, on the frail support.
Halfway down to the ground the rope broke with her weight, and gave her a fall to the pavement, but the distance was not great, and with a little, stifled moan of pain, she dragged herself up from the ground and hurried off through the darkness, sobbing: