"Yes,—I know. I'm resigned. But there's no affliction like death.—Bone, open the gate for Mis' Browst. Them hasps is needin' mendin', as I've often said to Joseph,—um!"
The women kissed each other as often as women do whose kisses are—cheap, and Mis' Browst set off down the road. Bone, turning to shut the gate, felt a cold hand on his arm.
"Gor-a'mighty! Mist' Dode, what is it?"
The figure standing in the snow wrapt in a blue cloak shook as he touched it. Was she, too, struck with death? Her eyes were burning, her face white and clammy.
"Where is he, Uncle Bone? where?"
The old man understood—all.
"Gone dead, darlin'."—holding her hand in his paw, tenderly. "Don't fret, chile! Down in de Tear-coat gully. Dead, chile, dead! Don't yer understan'?"
"He is not dead," she said, quietly. "Open the gate," pulling at the broken hasp.
"Fur de Lor's sake, Mist' Dode, come in 'n' bathe yer feet 'n' go to bed! Chile, yer crazy!"
Common sense, and a flash of something behind to give it effect, spoke out of Dode's brown eyes, just then.