Rilla knew the woman by sight and reputation. Her name was Mrs. Conover;
she lived down at the fishing village; she was a great-aunt of Mrs.
Anderson; and she drank as well as smoked.
Rilla's first impulse was to turn and flee. But that would never do.
Perhaps this woman, repulsive as she was, needed help--though she
certainly did not look as if she were worrying over the lack of it.
"Come in," said Mrs. Conover, removing her pipe and staring at Rilla
with her little, rat-like eyes.
"Is--is Mrs. Anderson really dead?" asked Rilla timidly, as she stepped
over the sill.
"Dead as a door nail," responded Mrs. Conover cheerfully. "Kicked the
bucket half an hour ago. I've sent Jen Conover to 'phone for the
undertaker and get some help up from the shore. You're the doctor's
miss, ain't ye? Have a cheer?"
Rilla did not see any chair which was not cluttered with something. She
remained standing.
"Wasn't it--very sudden?"
"Well, she's been a-pining ever since that worthless Jim lit out for
England--which I say it's a pity as he ever left. It's my belief she
was took for death when she heard the news. That young un there was born
a fortnight ago and since then she's just gone down and today she up and
died, without a soul expecting it."
"Is there anything I can do to--to help?" hesitated Rilla.
"Bless yez, no--unless ye've a knack with kids. I haven't.
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