“There again was the face of that little girl and the face of an old man.”
Finally the old man and the little girl rose up, and each put an arm around this form. The form would first look at one, then the other. Then Mrs. Gaskins gave one long, hard gasp, and straightened out, and the form broke loose, and all three rose up in the air and floated to the middle of the room, stopped, turned, and all looked at the bed. Then they turned and gazed at me. I couldn’t move. They kissed each other and began to move slowly toward the window, each with an arm around another. As they went out through the window the little girl began to sing the prettiest song I ever heard, in a low, sweet tone.
When they were gone I got up and ran to the window. There they were, going up through the sky above the barn, the little girl singing at the top of her voice.
I stood there looking as long as I could see them. I heard that little girl still singing as they went out of sight over the hill back of the poor-house.
“In the morning there was found a white-haired man.”
I felt so weak that I don’t know how long I stood there, but finally I thought that I must run and tell the superintendent that Mrs. Gaskins had gone. With that thought in my mind I turned from the window, crossed the room, and was just opening the door, when I happened to look toward the bed. And there lay Mrs. Gaskins as she had lain all evening, only stiller.
I was scared. I could hardly believe it. I went to the bed. She was cold. She did not breathe. I rubbed my eyes and hands and face to try to bring myself to realize what it all meant. Then I went into my room and lay down beside my baby till morning.
I straightened out Betsy’s clothes the next morning before they put her in the box. While doing so, I found a little rose-bush, tied up neatly in a rag and pinned fast to her skirt.
This, Mr. Editor, is all I know of Betsy Gaskins.