"The idee o' that lad dyin', forsaken like that, an' his own sister gallivantin' about California. It's past me understandin' entirely," she remarked, as she fastened on her widow's bonnet and threw her heavy shawl over her shoulders.
"Tell Will Devitt to harness the mare, and I'll go and see what can be done fer him."
Nancy arrived at the hospital late in the afternoon, and was admitted to the sick man's bedside. She found him delirious and unable to recognize her, but instead he called her "Sophia."
"It's so good of you to come, Sophia. I knew you would," he kept repeating as he clasped her hand in his. All that night Nancy stayed by him, attending to his wants with the skill of a mother, and soothing him by her words.
In the morning he died.
"I guess it will be the potter's field," the hospital doctor told her, when she inquired about the burial. "He came here almost penniless, and has been in the ward six weeks."
Nancy gazed into space while she made some hasty mental computations. "What balance is due ye?" she asked, suddenly.
The doctor produced a modest bill, at half the current rate, amounting to twenty-five dollars. It meant a good week's business out of Nancy's pocket, but she paid it without objection. "I want the body sent to my tavern out on the Monk Road, sir, and ye can complete all arrangements fer a decent Christian funeral, an' I'll pay all the expenses," she said, before leaving. She went to the telegraph office and left instructions to wire to all the known addresses of Miss Sophia Piper; then, satisfied with her day's work, she hurried home.
The tavern bar was closed during the two days while the body lay in the little parlor, and callers came and went on tiptoe, and spoke only in whispers. A steady stream of roughly dressed people, river-men and their friends, struggled over the four miles of snowy road to pay their last respects to the dead, and some brought flowers bundled awkwardly in their arms.
The night preceding the funeral, two great, long-limbed fellows, wearing top-boots, came stumbling into the tavern, more noisily because of their clumsy efforts at gentleness. Nancy knew them as former friends of Tom Piper, so she led them in at once. The men took the limit of the time usually spent there, and yet they were loath to go, and Nancy guessed that they had something further to say but scarcely knew how to commence. She encouraged them a little, and finally one spoke up.