Paul's heart sank in dismay. “Do you think, Mrs. Tilton,” he said, “that I could be of any service? To-morrow is Sunday, and I am not busy, you know. Could I help by going down with them?”
“No, I don't believe I would,” the old woman answered. “Jim is goin' along. He don't care nothin' about Jennie, but he'll take that excuse to get down there to see his friends. Harriet will bring Ethel back here right after the buryin'. She as good as told me so; she thinks a quiet place like this will be better than down thar among so many sad reminders. I want to tell you now, Paul, an' I don't intend to flatter you neither; but when Jim was talkin' so big on the porch t'other night, an' pokin' fun at the idea of a future life, an' you sat down on 'im so flat, an' said all them purty things so full o' hope to old folks like me, I jest set thar in the dark an' shed tears o' joy. I could 'a' tuck you in my arms an' 'a' hugged you. He is a-hirin' you, an' would naturally like for you to agree with him; but you fired your convictions at him the same as you would 'a' done at anybody else. I'm sick an' tired o' the way he's always talked—classin' humanity with cattle an' hogs like he does. I believe thar's a life after this un; if I didn't I'd go crazy. If I didn't know, actually know, that my poor daughter, who suffered all them years as that man's wife, was happy now, I'd be a fiend incarnate, an' go rantin' over the world like a she-devil let loose. I say I don't want to flatter you, but you've been like a ray o' sunshine in this house ever since you got here. If I had been an' infidel all my life the sight o' your face and the sound o' your voice would turn me flat over.”
Mrs. Tilton was crying. She wiped her eyes on her apron and moved away in the twilight. Paul looked, up at the window of Ethel's room, through which a light was shining. Then he bowed his head, locked his hands in front of him. He remained so for several minutes, then he said, fervently:
“O God, my Lord and Master, my Creator, my All, be merciful. I pray Thee, oh, be merciful—be merciful!”
CHAPTER VIII
TWO days after this Hoag came back from Atlanta, reaching home just at noon.
“I didn't go to the funeral myself,” he carelessly remarked at the dinner-table. “I had some fellers to see on business, an' I ain't much of a hand at such parades of flowers an' black stuff, nohow. Harriet is standin' it all right, but Eth' is in a purty bad fix. They've had a doctor with 'er ever since Jennie died. Eth' had never seen anybody die before, an' it seems that Jennie knowed enough to recognize 'er, an' begged 'er to stick by 'er side to the very end. Eth' has been nearly crazy ever since. She was too upset to go to the buryin', although plenty o' carriages was on hand, an' she could have rid in comfort. They offered me a seat at their expense, but, as I say, I had other fish to fry.”
“I knew it would go hard with Ethel,” Mrs. Tilton sighed. “It is a pity they let 'er see it. Such things are hard enough even on old, experienced folks. When are they comin' up, or did they say?”