There were women in the kitchen.
“’Tis Judith’s mother, Dannie,” Aunt Esther All whispered. “’Tis on’y she. ’Tis on’y Elizabeth.”
We had found her on the hills that morning.
“She’ve come t’ die all of a suddent. ’Tis another of her spells. Oh, Lord! she’ve come t’ die.”
There was no solemnity in this outer room.
“She’ve woful need o’ salvation,” Aunt Esther pattered. “She’s doomed, lad, an she doesn’t repent. Parson Stump ought t’ be fetched t’ work on she.”
There was grief––somewhere there was grief. I heard a sob; it came from a child’s breast. And there followed, then, some strange, rambling words of comfort in Elizabeth’s voice––a plea, it was, to never mind. Again a sob––Judith’s grief.
“’Tis Judith,” Aunt Esther sighed. “She’ve gone an’ give way.”
The child’s heart would break!
“Mother always ’lowed, Dannie,” Moses whispered, “that they ought t’ be a parson handy––when It come.”