Her figure was trim and strong — no longer young.
She had a great deal of energy, distinction, and elegance in her manner.
“How are all the girls, Elizabeth?” he asked kindly.
Her face grew sad.
She began to pull her gloves off.
“That’s what I came to see you about,” she said.
“I lost one of them last week.”
“Yes,” said Gant gravely,
“I was sorry to hear of that.”
“She was the best girl I had,” said Elizabeth.
“I’d have done anything in the world for her.
We did everything we could,” she added.
“I’ve no regrets on that score.
I had a doctor and two trained nurses by her all the time.”
She opened her black leather handbag, thrust her gloves into it, and pulling out a small bluebordered handkerchief, began to weep quietly.
“Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh,” said Gant, shaking his head.
“Too bad, too bad, too bad.
Come back to my office,” he said.
They went back and sat down.
Elizabeth dried her eyes.
“What was her name?” he asked.
“We called her Lily — her full name was Lillian Reed.”
“Why, I knew that girl,” he exclaimed.
“I spoke to her not over two weeks ago.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “she went like that — one hemorrhage right after another, down here.” She tapped her abdomen.
“Nobody ever knew she was sick until last Wednesday.
Friday she was gone.” She wept again.
“T-t-t-t-t-t,” he clucked regretfully.
“Too bad, too bad.
She was pretty as a picture.”
“I couldn’t have loved her more, Mr. Gant,” said Elizabeth, “if she had been my own daughter.”
“How old was she?” he asked.
“Twenty-two,” said Elizabeth, beginning to weep again.
“What a pity!
What a pity!” he agreed.
“Did she have any people?”
“No one who would do anything for her,” Elizabeth said.
“Her mother died when she was thirteen — she was born out here on the Beetree Fork — and her father,” she added indignantly, “is a mean old bastard who’s never done anything for her or any one else.
He didn’t even come to her funeral.”
“He will be punished,” said Gant darkly.
“As sure as there’s a God in heaven,” Elizabeth agreed, “he’ll get what’s coming to him in hell.
The old bastard!” she continued virtuously,
“I hope he rots!”
“You can depend upon it,” he said grimly.
“He will.
Ah, Lord.”
He was silent a moment while he shook his head with slow regret.
“A pity, a pity,” he muttered.
“So young.”
He had the moment of triumph all men have when they hear some one has died.