The two women hesitated, lingered at their task. Something kept them from moving the things that the coroner had kept in so rigidly exact a position.
“Yes; there’s somethin’ mighty queer about it. My land, jes’ think, she might be—HUNG!” in a hoarse whisper.
Both faces blanched at the hitherto unspoken possibility. A woman—neighbor and friend, and the childhood acquaintance of one of them—was imprisoned on the charge of killing her baby.
They felt that they ought to have a feeling of horror. It was a terrible crime, with seemingly only one explanation, but to both there arose visions of the unexpected satisfying of the craving mother heart of the work-worn farm drudge; of her seeming happiness and joy at the little cuddling head in the hollow of her arm and the soft lips on the breast, as the little form was held tightly to its mother’s bosom.
“I don’t care what the coroner’s jury said, I don’t believe Mamie could ’a’ done it. But still—if she didn’t, who did?”
“Yes, an’ then, if she didn’t do it, why don’t she say so? She knows they might hang her.”
“They say she ain’t said one word since Jed found her out there in the barn door. My land, but ain’t it hot?”
“Yes, there bein’ no trees ’round here, jes’ seems like the sun bakes right through the roof. Well, we might as well begin to pick up. The funeral’s at ten tomorrow. I can come over early; can you?”
“Yes, I’ll be here. I’m goin’ to stay an’ set up tonight. Mr. and Mrs. Shinkle said they’d come over. Selina can get supper for her pa an’ th’ boys.”
“We’d better change them cloths.”