"Somebody 's comin'," old Simeon observed deliberately. "Likely it's the new Over_seer_."
"Yes, that's him," Tim assented. "That's Dan Springer."
"I 'spected he was a-comin'," Grandsire Welsh commented, with a senile chuckle. "Huldy and Sam's been a-slickin' up things."
"Huldy and Sam," in more official language Mr. and Mrs. Dooling, were the not unworthy couple who had the poor-farm in charge.
"Wa'n't you sayin' t'other day," asked old Simeon, "thet you particular wantid to see the Over_seer_?"
"It's pining for him I am the time," Tim answered.
The old men sat silent, watching the approach of the visitor, who drove up to the hitching-post near them, and who leaped from his wagon with a briskness almost startling to the aged chorus.
"Spry," old Simeon commented. "I've seen the time, though, when I was spry too."
Springer fastened his horse, and came toward them.
"How d' do, boys?" he said cheerily. "How goes it?"
The contrast between his great hearty voice and the thin quavers in which they answered him was pathetic. He lingered a moment, and then turned to make his way into the house. Tim rose and hobbled rheumatically after him.
"Whist, Mister Springer," he called; "would ye be after waiting a wee bit till I have a word of speech with yer."
"Well, what can I do for you?" Springer asked good-naturedly. "Don't they treat you well?"
The old man took him by the arm and drew him around the corner of the house, away from the curious eyes of his companions.
"Whist!" he said, with a strange and sudden air of excitement. "Wait till I'm after telling yer. Your honor'll mind I'm after _trusting_ yer; _trusting_ yer, and ye'll no be betraying an old man. It's meself," he added, with a touch of pride at once whimsical and pathetic, "is ninety-three the day."
"Are you as old as that? Well, I'd keep your secret if you were twice as old," Springer returned, with clumsy but kindly jocoseness.
Tim raised himself until he stood almost upright.
"It's the money," he whispered, "the money I've saved for me burying."
He turned to stretch his thin, bloodless finger toward the bleak cluster of mounds on the hillside where mouldered the dead of the poor-farm.
"I'll no lie there," he said, with husky intensity. "I've scraped and scraped, and saved and saved, and it's the wee bit money I've got to pay for a spot of consecrated ground over to Tiverton. Ye'll no put me here when I'm gone! I'll no rest here! Me folks was respectable in the Old Isle, an' not unbeknowing the gentry; and there's never a one put outside consecrated ground. Ye'll promise me I'll be put in the graveyard over to Tiverton, and me got the money to pay."
Springer was as unemotional and unimaginative as a hearty, practical, well-fed man could be, but seeing the tears in the old pauper's bleared eyes, and hearing the passion of his tone, he could not but be moved.
He had heard something of this before. His predecessor in office had mentioned Tim, and his twenty years' saving, but so few were the chances a pauper in Dartbank had of picking up even a penny that the hoard even of so long a time could not be large. Now and then some charitable soul had given the old man a trifle. A vague sympathy was felt for the pathetic longing to be assured of a grave in consecrated ground, even among the villagers who regarded the idea itself as rank superstition.
"It's all right, Tim," the Overseer said. "If you go off while I have the say, I'll see to it myself. If you'd be any more comfortable over in Tiverton, we'll plant you there."
"Thank yer honor kindly," Tim answered. "The Calligans has always been decent, God-fearing folks, and it's meself'd be loth to disgrace the name a-crawling up out of this unholy graveyard forby on Judgment Day, and all the world there to see, and I never could do it so sly but the O'Tools and the O'Hooligans 'd spy on me, and they always so mad with envy of the Calligans they'd be after tattling the news all over Heaven, and bringing shame to me whole kith and kin."
The Overseer laughed, and responded that if Tim had laid by the money to pay for the job, he would certainly see that the grave was made in the consecrated earth of Tiverton churchyard. Then with a brisk step he passed on to attend to the sordid affairs of his office within. The most troublesome matter was left until the last.
"As to the Trafton child," he said to Huldy and Sam, "I don't see that anything can be done. I've spoken to the Selectmen about it, and they don't think the town should be called on to pay out twenty-five dollars when here's a place for the child for nothing."
"That's just what I told Louizy," Huldy responded. "I said that's what they'd say; but Louizy 's dretful cut up."
Springer moved uneasily or impatiently in his seat, so that the old wooden chair creaked under the weight of his substantial person.
"I know she is," he said; "if I could afford it, I'd send the child to her folks myself; but I can't, and I don't see but the girl's got to go to 'Lizy Ann Betts. Perhaps she won't be so hard on her."
"Hard on her," sniffed Huldy; "she'll just kill her; that's all."
At the word a wretched-looking woman pushed into the kitchen as if she had been listening at the door. She held out before her a right hand withered and shriveled by fire.
"Oh, Mr. Springer," she broke out, tears running down her cheeks, "don't send my Nellie to be bound to that woman! She's all I've got in the world; and she never wanted till I was burned. Send her to my folks in Connecticut and they'll treat her as their own."
She sank down suddenly as if her strength failed, and sat stiff and despairing, with eyes of wild entreaty.
"It's hard, I know," Springer answered awkwardly, "but Nellie'll be near you, and she would n't be in Connecticut. 'Lizy Ann Betts ain't a bad-hearted woman. She'll do well by the child, I hope."
"She'll do well?" the mother cried shrilly, raising herself with sudden vehemence. "Did she do well by the last girl was bound to her from this farm? Did n't she kill her?"
"There, there, Louizy," interposed Huldy, "it ain't no sort of use to make a fuss. What the S'lectmen say they say, and--"
She was interrupted by a cry without, and in an instant the door was flung open by old Simeon, who with wildly waving arms and weirdly working face cried out:--
"F' th' Lord's sake! Come quicker 'n scat! Old Tim's in a fit!"
II
The account old Simeon and Grandsire Welsh gave of Tim's seizure was that he had been sitting outside the kitchen window, where they all were listening with interest to the conversation within, when suddenly he had thrown up his arms, crying out that he could not do it, and had fallen in a fit. No one at the poor-farm could know that Tim had reached the crisis of a severe mental struggle which had been going on for days. He had for days listened to the bitter words of Mrs. Trafton, and had sympathized with her grief over her child; and all the time he listened he had been secretly conscious that the little hoard he had gathered for his burying would save Nellie from the Betts woman, a shrew notorious all over the county for her cruelty. He remembered that Bill Trafton had saved him from drowning; that Mrs. Betts had the credit of having caused the death of her last bound child; and against this he set the terror of rising at the Resurrection from the unblessed precincts of the Dartbank Potter's Field. The mental conflict had been too much for him, and the appeal of Mrs. Trafton to the Overseer had broken old Tim down.
Tim was got to bed, and in time recovered his senses, although he was very weak. Mrs. Trafton volunteered to watch with him that night, and so it came about that at midnight she sat in the bare chamber where old Tim lay. As the hours wore on Tim seemed much brighter, and asked her to talk to him to while away the time. The only subject in her mind was her child.
"If Nellie was with my folks," she said, "I'd try to stand being away from her; but it's just killing me to have that Betts woman starve her and beat her the way she's done with the others. She'd kill Nellie."
Tim moved uneasily in bed.
"But ye'd be after seein' the child here," he muttered feebly.
"I'd see her no more'n if she was with my folks," returned Louizy bitterly; "but I'd know how she was suffering."
The sick man did not answer. He turned his face to the wall and lay silent. After a time his regular breathing showed that he slept, while the watcher brooded in hopeless grief. At length Tim grew restless and began to mutter in his sleep.
"The poor creature's having a bad dream," Louizy said to herself, as his words grew more vehement and wild. "I wonder if I'd better wake him."
She was still debating the matter in her mind when Tim gave a sudden cry and sat up in bed, trembling in every limb. His face was ghastly.
"Oh, I will, I will!" he cried out. "I will, so help me Holy Mary!"
"Tim, Tim, what's the matter?" asked the nurse.