Kitts used to
come every day to see her, though he never said much when he was
there: he lugged his great copy of the Venus del Pardo along with
him one day, and left it, thinking she would like to look at it;
Knowles called it trash, when he came. The Doctor came always in
the morning; he told her he would read to her one day, and did it
always afterwards, putting on his horn spectacles, and holding
her old Bible close up to his rugged, anxious face. He used to
read most from the Gospel of St. John. She liked better to hear
him than any of the others, even than Margret, whose voice was so
low and tender: something in the man's half-savage nature was
akin to the child's.
As the day drew near when she was to go, every pleasant trifle
seemed to gather a deeper, solemn meaning. Jenny Balls came in
one night, and old Mrs. Polston.
"We thought you'd like to see her weddin'-dress, Lois," said the
old woman, taking off Jenny's cloak, "seein' as the weddin' was
to hev been to-morrow, and was put off on 'count of you."
Lois did like to see it; sat up, her face quite flushed to see
how nicely it fitted, and stroked back Jenny's soft hair under
the veil. And Jenny, being a warm-hearted little thing, broke
into a sobbing fit, saying that it spoiled it all to have Lois
gone.
"Don't muss your veil, child," said Mrs. Polston.
But Jenny cried on, hiding her face in Lois's skinny hand, until
Sam Polston came in, when she grew quiet and shy.
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