er mawther's hid o' hair I ha'n't niver approved
on; I can't ondertake it, an' so, I say, straight forrerd, at oncet."

The face so "accustomed to refusings" did not change, no flush of
resentment relieved its waxen pallor or lightened its fading eyes.
"'Tis th' last thing I'm a-askin' of yer," the poor woman said, weakly.
"Try as I kin, I can't live much longer. 'Tis on'y nat'ral I should
think o' Dora an' th' child'en."

"Yu think a sight too much on 'em, bor! 'Tis time yu give 'em up. Yu
lay o' yer deathbed, Mis' Green, an' yu a mis'rable sinner; can't you
put up a prayer to ask th' Lord ter have marcy on yer?"

"No," said Mrs Green.

"'No'--an' why not?"

"Cos I don' keer."

"Don' keer, Mis' Green?"

"No, Mis' Barrett, so's He look arter Dora an' th' child'en, I don't
keer what He du ter me."

* * * * *

"Mother!"

No answer, but a quiver of drooping lids.

"Mother!"

At the sharp terror of the voice the lids lifted themselves and fell
again.

"Yu ain't a-dyin', mother?"

"'Course I ain't."

"Yer promussed! Yer said yer warn't a-dyin'!"

"An' I ain't."

"Then don't kape a-lookin' o' that mander. Lay hold o' th' comb an' du
my ringolets."

The comb was thrust within cold fingers which did not close upon it.

"If so bein' yer don't set ter wark and comb 'em out I'll shake ye.
I'll shake ye, mother, du yer hare? Du yer hare, mother? Th' bell's
gone, an' how'm I ter go ter school an' my ringolets not carled?"

They were not curled that morning, however, for at the sound of the
child's angry, frightened voice Mrs Barrett came running upstairs and
seized her and dragged her from the room.

"Yer baggige, yu! Ter spake i' that mander to a dyin' woman!"

"She ain't a-dyin', then," the child screamed as she was thrust from
the house. "She ain't a-dyin', an' I want my ringolets carled."

Once, when Dora had announced in the hearing of a pupil-teacher that
she was the prettiest girl in the school: "You ain't, then," the older
girl had told her. "You are not pretty at all, Dora, but exactly like
your brother Jim."

"Jim's ugly! You're a-tazin' of me!" Dora had fiercely cried.

"If you hadn't your curls you'd be Jim over again," the teacher had
persisted.

She was a tempestuous little animal. She had flown to her mother with
the horrid insinuation, had sobbed and screamed, and kicked the
innocent, ugly Jim. If she had not her curls!

But she had them.