"No," said Gregory, "no."
The landlady began putting the things together.
"Who," asked Gregory, "is in that room?"
Glad to have a little innocent piece of gossip to relate, and some one
willing to hear it, the landlady made the most of a little story as she
cleared the table. Six months before a lady had come alone to the hotel in
a wagon, with only a coloured leader and driver. Eight days after a little
baby had been born.
If Gregory stood up and looked out at the window he would see a bluegum-
tree in the graveyard; close by it was a little grave. The baby was buried
there. A tiny thing--only lived two hours, and the mother herself almost
went with it. After a while she was better; but one day she got up out of
bed, dressed herself without saying a word to any one, and went out. It
was a drizzly day; a little time after some one saw her sitting on the wet
ground under the bluegum-tree, with the rain dripping from her hat and
shawl. They went to fetch her, but she would not come until she chose.
When she did, she had gone to bed and had not risen again from it; never
would, the doctor said.
She was very patient, poor thing. When you went in to ask her how she was
she said always "Better," or "Nearly well!" and lay still in the darkened
room, and never troubled any one. The Mozambiquer took care of her, and
she would not allow any one else to touch her; would not so much as allow
any one else to see her foot uncovered.
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