If you'll awnly
give your mind to the matter an' settle it, I'll go this evenin' to wan
plaace or t'other an' see the diggers," said Mary.
"Sancreed for sartain. Her'll be nearer to us, an' us can see wheer she be
restin' 'pon Sundays. Sancreed's best an' fittest, for she was Chirgwin
all. They be comin' to sit 'pon her tomorrow marnin'. Please God He'll hold
me up agin it, but I feels as if I'd welcome death to be 'long-side my lil
Joan again."
He wept an old man's scanty tears, and Mary comforted him, while she
smothered her own real sorrows entirely before his. She spoke coldly and
practically; she fetched him a stiff dose of spirits and a mutton-chop
freshly cooked. These things she made him drink and eat, and she spoke to
the old man while he did so, larding the discussion of necessary details
with expressions of hope for the dead.
"Be strong, an' faace it, uncle. God knaws best. I lay the poor lovey was
took from gert evil to come. You knaw so well as me. You can guess wheer
her'd be now if livin'. She'm in a better home than that. I s'pose the
bury-in' might be two days off, or three. I'll step awver to Sancreed
bimebye, an' if the undertaker come, Mrs. Bartlett can be with him when he
do his work."
"Iss, an' I've said as 'tis to be oak--braave, bold, seasoned oak, an'
polished, wi' silvered handles to it. Her should lie in gawld, my awn Joan,
if I could bring it about.
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