name was Mrs. Conover; she lived down at the fishing village ; she was a great aunt of Mrs. Anderson’s; and she drank as well as smoked.
Rilla’s first impulse was to turn and flee. But that would not do. Perhaps this woman, repulsive as she was, needed help—though she certainly did not look as if she were worrying over the lack of it.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Conover, removing her pipe and staring at Rilla with her little, rat-like eyes.
“Is—is Mrs. Anderson really dead?” asked Rilla timidly, as she stepped over the sill.
“Dead as a door nail,” responded Mrs. Conover cheerfully. “Kicked the bucket half an hour ago. I’ve sent Jen Conover to ’phone for the undertaker and get some help up from the shore. You're the doctor’s miss, ain’t ye? Have a cheer?”
Rilla did not see any chair which was not cluttered with something. She remained standing.
“Wasn’t it—very sudden?”
“Well, she’s been a-pining ever since that worthless Jim lit out for England—which I say it’s a pity as he ever left. It’s my belief she was took for death when she heard the news. That young un there was born a fortnight ago and since then she’s just gone down and today she up and died, without a soul expecting it.”
“Is there anything I can do to—to help?” hesitated Rilla.
“Bless yez, no—unless ye’ve a knack with kids. I haven’t. That young un there never lets up squalling, day or night. I’ve just got that I take no notice of it.”
Rilla tiptoed gingerly over to the cradle and more gingerly still pulled down the dirty blanket. She had
