black dress.

One of the pretty-grown up folks looked at one of the little tiny
girls and said: ``And what is her name?''

Sister Angela said: ``Bessie Bell was written on her little white
night-gown, done in linen thread.''

And Sister Angela said: ``Yes, we have always kept the little white
night-gown.''

And one of the pretty grown-up people said: ``Yes, that was right.
Always to keep the little white night-gown.''

And the other grown-up person said: ``And how comes that to be all
that you know?''

Sister Angela said: ``Because of the fever.''

And the pretty one said: ``The dreadful fever!''

Sister Angela said: ``Yes. The dreadful fever. It often leaves
none in a house, and even sometimes none in a whole neighborhood to
tell the story.''

If, as Sister Angela and the pretty grown person talked, there came
to Bessie Bell any thought of a great silent house, and a big white
cat, with just one bit of black spot on its tail, why if such a
thought came to Bessie Bell it came only to float away, away like
white thistle seed--drifting away as dreams drift.