Little
groups of people were standing before the lodge-gates, looking in. "If
those persons make any noise," said the doctor, "they must be warned
away." There was no need to warn them: they were only the laborers who
had worked on the dead man's property, and here and there some women and
children from the village. They were all thinking of him--some talking
of him--and it quickened their sluggish minds to look at his house.
The gentlefolks thereabouts were mostly kind to them (the men said),
but none like _him_. The women whispered to each other of his comforting
ways when he came into their cottages. "He was a cheerful man, poor
soul; and thoughtful of us, too: he never came in and stared at
meal-times; the rest of 'em help us, and scold us--all _he_ ever said
was, better luck next time." So they stood and talked of him, and looked
at his house and grounds and moved off clumsily by twos and threes, with
the dim sense that the sight of his pleasant face would never comfort
them again. The dullest head among them knew, that night, that the hard
ways of poverty would be all the harder to walk on, now he was gone.
A little later, news was brought to the bed-chamber door that old Mr.
Pages:
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179