a cheap little clock over the mantel ticked unmercifully fast; it
seemed in haste for Nancy to be gone. The curtains were drawn, lest the
thrifty window-plants should be frostbitten, and several tumblers of
jelly on the oilcloth-covered table bore witness that the neighbors had
put aside their moral scruples and their social delicacy, and were
giving of their best, albeit to one whose ways were not their ways. But
Nancy herself was the centre and light of the room,--so frail, so
clean, with her plain nightcap and coarse white nightgown, and the
small checked shawl folded primly over her shoulders. Thin as she was,
she looked scarcely older than when I had seen her, five years ago; yet
since then she had walked through a blacker valley than the one before
her.

"Now don't you git all nerved up when I cough," she said, lying back
exhausted after a paroxysm. "I've got used to it; it don't trouble me
no more'n a mosquiter. I want to have a real good night now, talkin'
over old times."

"You must try to sleep," I said. "The doctor will blame me, if I let
you talk."

"No, he won't," said Nancy, shrewdly. "He knows I 'ain't got much time
afore me, an' I guess he wouldn't deny me the good on't. That's why I
sent for ye, dear; I 'ain't had anybody I could speak out to in five
year, an' I wanted to speak out, afore I died. Do you remember how you
used to come over an' eat cold b'iled dish for supper, that last summer
you was down here?"

"Oh, don't I, Nancy! there never was anything like it. Such cold
potatoes--"