Grandfather Bradshaw—and choked over his hot drink in his indignation
‘“No—nor in the twentieth neither,” said Mrs. Hollinger, patting him on the back. “I advise you to go to bed, Grandfather. You're tired.”
“I am not tired and I will go to bed when I choose, Julia Hollinger.”
“Oh, very well, Grandfather. I advise you not to get worked up. I think I'll take a cup o’ tea in to Clara. Perhaps she’ll take it now. She hasn’t eaten or drunk since Tuesday night. How can a woman stand that—I put it to you?”
Emily and Ilse ate their supper with what appetite they could summon up, while Grandfather Bradshaw watched them suspiciously, and sorrowful sounds reached them from the little inner room.
“It is wet and cold tonight—where is he—my little son?” moaned a woman’s voice, with an undertone of agony that made Emily writhe as if she felt it herself.
“They'll find him soon, Clara,” said Mrs. Hollinger, in a sprightly tone of artificial comfort. “Just you be patient—take a sleep, I advise you—they’re bound to find him soon.”
“They'll never find him.” The voice was almost a scream now. “He is dead—he is dead—he died that bitter cold Tuesday night so long ago. O God, have mercy! He was such a little fellow! And I’ve told him so often not to speak until he was spoken to—he’ll never speak to me again. I wouldn’t let him have a light after he went to bed—and he died in the dark, alone and cold. I wouldn’t let him have a dog—he wanted one so much. But he wants nothing now—only a grave and a shroud.”
“I can’t endure this,” muttered Emily. “I can’t, Ilse. I feel as if I’d go mad with horror. I’d rather be out in the storm.”
Lank Mrs. Hollinger, looking at once sympathetic and important, came out of the bedroom and shut the door.
“Awful, isn’t it! She'll go on like that all night.
