In a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture.
A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered.
"Well," said he, "Mag's dead."
"What?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread.
"Mag's dead," repeated the man.
"Deh hell she is," said the woman. She continued her meal. When she
finished her coffee she began to weep.
"I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she
weared worsted boots," moaned she.
"Well, whata dat?" said the man.
"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried.
The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping
woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women
entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands the rooms took
on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is
greeted.
Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with
outstretched arms. "Ah, poor Mary," she cried, and tenderly embraced
the moaning one.
"Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis," continued she. Her vocabulary
was derived from mission churches. "Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs!
Ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'."
Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness
to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her
body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that
sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe.
"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no
bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith," she
cried, raising her streaming eyes.
"Ah, me poor Mary," sobbed the woman in black. With low, coddling
cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms
about her. The other women began to groan in different keys.
"Yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, Mary, an' let us hope it's fer
deh bes'. Yeh'll fergive her now, Mary, won't yehs, dear, all her
disobed'ence? All her t'ankless behavior to her mudder an' all her
badness? She's gone where her ter'ble sins will be judged."
The woman in black raised her face and paused. The inevitable sunlight
came streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon
the faded hues of the room. Two or three of the spectators were
sniffling, and one was loudly weeping. The mourner arose and staggered
into the other room. In a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby
shoes held in the hollow of her hand.
"I kin remember when she used to wear dem," cried she. The women burst
anew into cries as if they had all been stabbed. The mourner turned to
the soiled and unshaven man.
"Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister! Go git yer sister an' we'll put deh
boots on her feets!"
"Dey won't fit her now, yeh damn fool," said the man.
"Go git yer sister, Jimmie," shrieked the woman, confronting him
fiercely.
The man swore sullenly. He went over to a corner and slowly began to
put on his coat. He took his hat and went out, with a dragging,
reluctant step.
The woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner.
"Yeh'll fergive her, Mary! Yeh'll fergive yer bad, bad, chil'! Her
life was a curse an' her days were black an' yeh'll fergive yer bad
girl? She's gone where her sins will be judged."
"She's gone where her sins will be judged," cried the other women, like
a choir at a funeral.
"Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," said the woman in black,
raising her eyes to the sunbeams.
"Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," responded the others.
"Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!" pleaded the woman in black. The mourner
essayed to speak but her voice gave way. She shook her great shoulders
frantically, in an agony of grief. Hot tears seemed to scald her
quivering face. Finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain.
"Oh, yes, I'll fergive her! I'll fergive her!"