I planted them primroses 'long
the top myself. If wan abbun gone an' blossomed tu!"
She stooped to pick a primrose and an opening bud; but Joe stopped her.
"Doan't 'e pluck 'em. Never take no flowers off of a graave. They'm all the
dead have got."
"But they'll die, Joe. Theer's frost bitin' in the air already. They'll be
withered come marnin'."
"No matter for that," he said; "let 'em bide wheer they be."
The man was silent a while as he looked at the mound. Then he spoke again.
"Tell me about her. Talk 'bout her doin's an' sayin's. Did she forgive that
man afore she died or dedn' she?"
"Iss, I reckon so."
Mary mentioned those things best calculated in her opinion to lighten the
other's sorrow. He nodded from time to time as she spoke, and walked up and
down with his hands behind, him. When she stopped, he asked her to tell him
further facts. Then the light waned under the sycamore trees and only a red
fire still touched their topmost boughs.
"We'll go now," Noy said. "An' she died believin' just the same as what you
do--eh, Mary?"
"Uncle's sure of it--positive sartain 'twas so."
"An' you?"
"I pray that he was right. Iss fay, I've grawed to b'lieve truly our Joan
was saved, spite of all. I never 'sactly understood her thots, nor she
mine; but she'm in heaven now I do think."
"If bitterness an' sorrer counts she should be. An' you may take it from me
she is.
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