She is, Mem.

She's lookin' foine in her Sunday suit.
Shrouds is gone out, Mem, they say." She went tipping over the floor to something white that lay on a board, a candle at the head, and drew off the sheet.

A girl of fifteen, almost a child, lay underneath, dead,--her lithe, delicate figure decked out in a dirty plaid skirt, and stained velvet bodice,--her neck and arms bare.

The small face was purely cut, haggard, patient in its sleep,--the soft, fair hair gathered off the tired forehead.

Margret leaned over her, shuddering, pinning her handkerchief about the child's dead neck.
"How young she is!" muttered Knowles.