“No.”
“I is.”
She sat up in bed—and drew me closer. “An’ why, dear?” she asked, stroking my cheek.
“Along o’ what I heared in the dark, Bessie—at his door.”
“You’ve not been eavesdroppin’, Davy?” she chided.
“Oh, I wisht I hadn’t!”
“’Twas not well done.”
The moon was up, broadly shining behind the Watchman: my sister’s white little room—kept sweet and dainty in the way she had—was full of soft gray light; and I saw that her eyes were wide and moist.
“He’s wonderful restless, the night,” she mused.
“He’ve a great grief.”