I don't know how long
I had sat there with my eyes burning, and my hands deadly cold,
when Sally came in with the shoes cleaned, and carried carefully
in her apron for fear of a soil touching them. At the sight of
that--
I can write no more. My tears drop so fast on the paper that I
can see nothing.
March 12th. She died on the afternoon of the eighth. On the
morning of the ninth, I wrote, as in duty bound, to her
stepmother at Hammersmith. There was no answer. I wrote again; my
letter was returned to me this morning unopened. For all that
woman cares, Mary might be buried with a pauper's funeral; but
this shall never be, if I pawn everything about me, down to the
very gown that is on my back. The bare thought of Mary being
buried by the workhouse gave me the spirit to dry my eyes, and go
to the undertaker's, and tell him how I was placed. I said if he
would get me an estimate of all that would have to be paid, from
first to last, for the cheapest decent funeral that could be had,
I would undertake to raise the money. He gave me the estimate,
written in this way, like a common bill:
A walking funeral complete............Pounds 1 13 8
Vestry.......................................0 4 4
Rector.......................................
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