Both women nodded, drawing in their breath with an awful relish.
"'T will be a terrible loss to his mother," said Mandy Loomis. "Such a likely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 'Bind so little good, one way and another."
"Do you think they'll hear news of Melody?" asked Mrs. Penny, changing the subject abruptly.
Amanda Loomis plumped her hands down on her knees, and leaned forward; it was good to listen, but, oh, how much better it was to speak!
"I don't," she said, with gloomy emphasis. "If you ask me what I reelly think, Mis' Penny, it's that. I don't think we shall ever set eyes on that blessed child again. Rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimes my hopes get away with me, and I forgit my jedgment for a spell. But there! see how it is! Now, mind, what I say is for this room only." She spread her hands abroad, as if warning the air around to secrecy, and lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. "I've ben here a week now, Mis' Penny. Every night the death-watch has ticked in Mel'dy's room the endurin' night. I don't sleep, you know, fit to support a flea. I hear every hour strike right straight along, and I know things that's hid from others, Mis' Penny, though I do say it. Last night as ever was I heard a sobbin' and a sighin' goin' round the house, as plain as I hear you this minute. Some might ha' said't was the wind, but there's other things besides wind, Mis' Penny; and I solemnly believe that was Mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. It ain't my interest to say it," she cried, with a sudden change of tone, putting her apron to her eyes: "goodness knows it ain't my interest to say it. What that child has been to me nobody knows. When I've had them weakly spells, the' warn't nobody but Mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 'em alive, well I know. She tended me and sung to me like all the angels in heaven, and when she'd lay her hand on me--well, there! seems's though my narves 'ud quiet right down, and blow away like smoke. I've ben a well woman--that is to say, for one that's always enjoyed poor health--sence Dr. Brown sent that blessed child to me. She has a gift, if ever any one had. Dr. Brown had ought to give her half of what he makes doctorin'; she's more help than all the medicine ever _he_ gives. I never saw a doctor so dretful stingy with his stuff. Why, I've ben perishin' sometimes for want o' doctorin', and all he'd give me was a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as would lay on the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing,--not so much as you'd give to a canary-bird. I do sometimes wish we had a doctor who knew the use o' medicine, 'stead of everlastin'ly talkin' about the laws o' health, and hulsome food, and all them notions. Why, there's old Dr. Jalap, over to the Corners. He give Beulah Pegrum seven Liver Pills at one dose, and only charged her fifty cents, over 'n' above the cost of the pills. Now _that's_ what I call doctorin',--not but what I like Dr. Brown well enough. But Mel'dy--well, there! and now to have her took off so suddin, and never to know whether she's buried respectable, or buried at all! You hear awful stories of city ways, these times. Now, this is for this room only, and don't you ever tell a soul! It's as true as I live, they have a furnace where they burn folks' bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. My cousin Salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. He thought it was connected with the gas-works, but he didn't know for sure. Mis' Penny, if Rejoice Dale was to know that Mel'dy was made into gas--"