Rose Clark. Fern Fanny
Markham.
"Oh, ma'am – oh, ma'am – she's gone – all alone, too – oh, Mrs. Markham – "
"Who's gone? what are you talking about, Timmons?"
"Tibbs, ma'am – Tibbs – while I was down here talking to you – and all alone, too – oh dear – oh dear – "
"Hold your tongue, Timmins; as if your being there would have done any good?"
"Don't you think so, ma'am?" asked the relieved Timmins.
"No, of course not; the child's time had come – it is all well enough; you couldn't have helped it. Call Watkins, and tell her to go lay her out. I will be up when I have taken my nap. You stay there till Watkins has done, and then lock the door and take the key. What o'clock is it?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Timmins. "Are you sure it was just as well for Tibbs to die alone? I hope I shan't die alone. Should you like to die alone, Mrs. Markham?"
"That has nothing to do with it," answered Mrs. Markham, angrily; "go along, Timmins, and don't make a fool of yourself."
"Poor thing! poor thing!" exclaimed Watkins, as she untied little Tibbs's night-dress to wash her thin limbs, "her sufferings are over. I tell you, Timmins, there'll be a long reckoning for this some day. I had rather be Tibbs here than Mrs. Markham. She isn't a sparrow's weight," said Watkins, lifting the child. "Was she sensible when she died, Timmins?"
"Don't ask me – don't ask me. Oh, Watkins, could I help it? I ran down to speak to Mrs. Markham, and – and – "
"She didn't die alone?" asked the horror-struck Watkins, laying the corpse back upon the pillow.
Timmins nodded her head, and sat rocking her figure to and fro.
"Now, don't say a word – don't say a word," said Timmins, "I know I shall be punished for it; but in deed I didn't mean no harm. I can't stay much longer in this house, Watkins."
Watkins made no reply, except by slow shakes of the head, as she drew on the little charity night-dress which was to answer for a shroud, smoothed the soft silken hair, and folded the small hands over the weary little heart.
"Do you know a prayer, Watkins?" asked Timmins, looking at the dead child.
"I know 'Our Father,'" replied Watkins, smoothing a fold in the shroud.
"Say it," said Timmins, reverently; "it won't do her no good, but it will me."
"Our Father – "
"Got all through?" asked Mrs. Markham, throwing open the door; "that's all right. Now spread the sheet over her face – open the window – lock the door, and give me the key."
"Won't you come in, ma'am, and look at the child?" asked Watkins, stepping one side.
"No, it don't signify; you washed her and all that, I suppose. Come out, Timmins; and you, Watkins, run for the undertaker – the sooner the child is taken away the better; it is not healthy to have a corpse in the house," and Mrs. Markham applied her smelling-salts to her nose.
Watkins tied on her bonnet, and went sorrowfully down street for the undertaker.
CHAPTER VI
Mr. Pall prided himself on the reverent manner in which he performed his necessary funereal duties. He always dressed in black, and sat, handkerchief in hand, in the middle of his coffin ware-room, in a prepared state of mind to receive customers.
He had every variety of coffin – from plain pine-wood up to the most polished mahogany and rosewood. His latest invention was "the casket," daintily lined throughout with white satin, and the lid so constructed as to expose the whole person instead of the face only, as in more common coffins. This was what Mr. Pall called "a dress coffin," and was perfectly consistent with any variety of adornment in the shroud that the fancy of grief-stricken affection might suggest.
When Watkins entered, Mr. Pall sat complacently in his chair amid his piles of coffins, with his hands solemnly folded over his handkerchief. He would have scorned to disgrace his profession, like many others of the craft, by reading the newspapers in his sanctum, smoking a cigar, or in any other way conveying the idea that he had lost sight of his mournful calling. We are not bound, therefore, to believe, on the authority of a prying policeman's limited vision through the key-hole, that when the shop was closed, Mr. Pall nightly drew from an old-fashioned coffin a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars, wherewith to console himself for the day's solemn and self-inflicted penance.
"Good morning, m-a-a-m," drawled the dolorous Pall.
"'Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
Mine ears attend the cry.'
"Want my mournful services, ma'am? I shall take a melancholy pleasure in showing you my coffins. Age of the corpse, ma'am?" and Pall used his white handkerchief.
"Six years."
"'Death strikes down all,
Both great and small – '
"Place of residence, ma'am?
"Orphan Asylum, eh?" repeated the disappointed Pall, as his vision of the costly casket pattern faded away; "pine coffin, of course – no satin lining or silver nails – no carriages – night burial, Potters' Field, etc.
"'Lie in the dust,
We all must.'
"Tell the afflicted matron of the Orphan Asylum that I will send up directly and take the deceased child's measure."
And Pall flourished his white handkerchief as long as was consistent with the demise of a charity orphan, and the small sum invested in the pine coffin.
CHAPTER VII
It was the day for the committee to make their stated visit of examination at the Asylum. Timmins had swept the school-room floor very carefully, scoured off the black-board, dusted the benches, and placed a bunch of flowers on Mrs. Markham's desk, just as that lady entered on her tour of inspection.
"How on earth came that green trash on my desk?" asked the offended matron.
"I did it, ma'am, to make it look kind o' cheerful like;" said Timmins, a little abashed at exhibiting such a weakness in such an august presence. "It looks so dry and hard here, and children, poor things, is fond of flowers," and Timmins sighed as she thought of poor Tibbie.
"Are you in your dotage, Timmins, to bring such a frivolous thing as a bouquet into a school-room? who ever heard of such a folly?" and Mrs. Markham sent it spinning through the nearest window.
Timmins sighed again, and rubbed off one of the benches with a corner of her apron; then, looking up as if a bright thought had struck her, she said:
"They say, ma'am, that this world is nothing but a school for us, and yet God has strewn flowers all over it. He must have done it for something."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Mrs. Markham, in extreme disgust; "go, bring in the chairs for the committee, and then ring the bell for the children."
Clang – clang – clang went the bell, and in wound the mournful procession; all habited alike, all with the same listless air, flabby-looking limbs, and leaden complexions.
"Seems to me you look uncommonly stupid," remarked the matron, by way of encouragement to the children; "see if you can't throw a little animation into your faces."
The poor little victims stared open their eyes, and made an ineffectual attempt at a smile, more painful to witness than their former listlessness.
"Stand up straighter, can't you?"
The little crooked spines made a feeble and ineffectual attempt to remedy the irreparable injury Mrs. Markham had inflicted upon them.
"Now, let every toe touch that crack on the floor.
"Now, cross your arms behind, every one of you.
"There – don't you stir a hair till the committee come in; it is now eleven; they will be here at quarter before twelve; now mind