“Ay,” I answered, breathless.
Her voice was then triumphant. “I been t’ hell,” said she, “an’ back!”
“What’s it like, Mary?”
She shuddered.
“What’s it like,” I pleaded, lusting for the unholy knowledge, “in hell?”
For a moment she stared at the moonlit hills. Her grasp on my wrist relaxed. I saw that her lips were working.
“What’s it like,” I urged, “in hell?” for I devoutly wished to have the disclosure over with.
“’Tis hell,” she answered, low, “at Wayfarer’s Tickle. The gate t’ hell! Rum an’ love, Davy, dear,” she added, laying a fond hand upon my head, “leads t’ hell.”
“Not love!” I cried, in sudden fear: for I had thought of the driving snow, of my dear sister lying in the doctor’s arms, of his kiss upon her lips. “Oh, love leads t’ heaven!”
“T’ hell,” said she.