One woman bent down and whispered into her child's ear as she pointed with one cotton-gloved finger, "See, Johnny, see little Freddie, there; he 'ain't got no mother no more. Pore little Freddie! ain't you sorry fur him?" The child nodded, and gazed with open-eyed wonder at "little Freddie" as if he were of a new species.
The curtains, stirred by the blast through the loose windows, flapped dismally, and the people drew their wraps about them, for the fireless room was cold. Steadily, insistently, the hive-like drone of conversation murmured on.
"I wonder who 's a-goin' to preach the funeral," asked one.
"Oh, Mr. Simpson, of the Methodist Church, of course: she used to go to that church years ago, you know, before she backslid."
"That 's jest what I 've allus said about people that falls from grace. You know the last state o' that man is worse than the first."
"Ah, that 's true enough."
"It 's a-puttin' yore hand to the ploughshare an' then turnin' back."
"I wonder what the preacher 'll have to say fur her. It 's a mighty hard case to preach about."
"I 'm wonderin' too what he 'll say, an' where he 'll preach her."