"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