“Weighs no more than a feather,” answered he. “Poor mite, she wasted away to nothing at all.”
“I asked because I thought you seemed tired.”
“I tired?”
“Well, you look hot.”
“Hot I be—it is the weather. I’m perspiring wonderful, and can’t get at my pocket-handkerchief—it is in the pocket next the coffin.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll wipe your face,” said the girl. “But you must stand still and stoop.”
Jack halted, bowed, and Kate passed her white cambric pocket-handkerchief over his face.
“Thank y’,” said the bearer. “It’s terrible refreshing, and smells beautiful.”
“That’s scent I put on it,” explained the girl.