Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he could see once more
the figure of Nancy, her bright eyes and cheery smile, and hear the
nimble tongue which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently according
to the needs of her listener. He could see the little, stooped figure in
its ragged gown, the work-worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would
miss her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. But what right
had she to go talking to him of death? Still, she was old, she had been
kind to him, and he had driven her away in anger. He had called her a
meddlesome busybody who went about poking and prying into other people's
affairs and had ordered her to leave the house and never enter it again.
"Pokin' an' pryin' is it?" she had answered quietly as she made her way
towards the door. He remembered now how difficult it had been for her to
walk even on the level floor; what a task it must have been for her to
climb those three long flights of stairs as she had been doing every day
for these months past. "Pokin' an' pryin' is it? Maybe so, maybe so. But
Nancy didn't mean it that way, no, lad, indeed she didn't. Nancy was
thinkin' of her own boy lyin' at rest out yonder with the green grass
growin' over him, her own boy that went the same way you're a goin' now.
He'd be about the same age as you, too, an' there's the look on your
face that I seen on his so often, the desperate, despairin' look that it
breaks my heart to see.
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