Her voice was weak and hoarse as if from a cold or much calling, but there was sharp emphasis in it.

She gave a curious impression of spirit subdued and tearfully rasped, like her face, yet never lacking.
"You--think he--could ?" whispered Elvira Gordon.
"'Tain't for me to say," replied Margaret Bean.

"He lays there--looks most as if he was dead." She wiped her eyes hard, with a handkerchief so stiff that it looked on that cold morning frozen as with old tears.

Margaret Bean was famous for her fine starching in the village; it was her chief domestic talent, and she was faithful in its application in all possible directions.
"I wish he would speak if he could," said Mrs.Gordon.
"I do, if it's for the best," returned Margaret Bean.

She hesitated; there were red rings around her tearful eyes, like a bird's.