"Sure, sir!—I saw her buried up in the ground. "The tears poured down the child's cheeks.
"I declare," said Uncle Phil, brushing his hand across his own eyes, and then drawing Juliet close to him—"is that person you call mother kind to you?" he asked.
"Sir!—almost always she is—sometimes she is dreadful sleepy—and sometimes she—she don't feel well—and then she gets angry very easy."
"Was your own mother kind to you?"
"My own mother!—indeed, indeed she was—always."
"Poor little child! I feel for you. How long since she died?"
"I don't know; I know it was winter-time, and we had not any wood, when Mrs. Smith came into our room—but it was not last winter—and I don't know when it was."
"Was this woman up stairs any kin to you?"
"No, she did not even know mother before that time—she was angry about something when she came in; but, when she saw how sick mother was, and that I was lying close to her to warm her, for I told you we had not any wood, sir, she seemed very sorry for mother, and she cried—and mother sent me out of the room—and she took care of mother almost all the time till she died—it was not long, though—for I remember there was a bit of the loaf of bread she brought lying by mother when she died. Now I am afraid she is getting sick just as mother was, for she coughs all night."
Before Uncle Phil had time for any more interrogatories, Juliet was again called, and he went
