gotten I 'd come back. An' even now, miss, when I sit at my window upstairs, I think what it 'd be to be in my own little room over the garden at 'ome—with children, per'aps, an' grandchildren about me—instead o' what it is."
She relapsed into the silence from which the nurse had first roused her, and there was no change in her expression except for the tears that brightened her eyes.
"What became of him?" the girl asked.
"'E died, miss, in the West, where 'e went under a new name."
"And you married again?"
"Yes, miss. An' my second 'usband never came back from the war, an' my boys went further west, an' I thought to make my way to Cumberland maybe, so I came to New York an' worked 'ere. But I got myself no further, an' never 'eard word o' the farm—I was afeard to ask—but peat bogs preserve a body, miss, like mummies in a case, an' I doubt not they found 'im at last, an' buried 'im right."
"What a life!"
"Yes, miss. It 'as its own way with you—life. I can't complain. It all 'ad to be. An' now I can sit 'ere an' see it all, just as plain as I could with my old eyes if it was 'ere before me. Your body grows old, miss, but not yourself. You 'll see, miss. You 'll see."
