It was not raining when she awoke, but the morning was gray and cloudy.
She came downstairs early, so early--for it was Sunday morning, when
all East Wellmouth lies abed--that she expected to find no one, not even
Imogene, astir. But, to her great surprise, Miss Timpson was seated by
the living-room stove.
"Land sakes!" exclaimed Thankful. "Are you up? What's the matter?"
Miss Timpson, who had started violently when Mrs. Barnes entered, turned
toward the latter a face as white, so Thankful described it afterward,
"as unbleached muslin." This was not a bad simile, for Miss Timpson's
complexion was, owing to her excessive tea-drinking, a decided yellow.
Just now it was a very pale yellow.
"Who is it?" she gasped. "Oh, it's you, Mrs. Barnes. It IS you, isn't
it?"
"Me? Of course it's me. Have I changed so much in the night that you
don't know me? What is it, Miss Timpson? Are you sick? Can I get you
anything?"
"No, no. I ain't sick--in body, anyway. And nobody can get me anything
this side of the grave. Mrs. Barnes, I'm going."
"You're GOIN'? What? You don't mean you're dyin'?"
Considering her lodger's remarks of the previous evening, those relating
to "going when the time came," it is no wonder Thankful was alarmed. But
Miss Timpson shook her head.
"No," she said, "I don't mean that, not yet, though that'll come next;
I feel it coming already. No, Mrs. Barnes, I don't mean that. I mean I'm
going away. I can't live here any longer.
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