"Ah," Emily said; "he's one of your cautious ones, Boult is. Them that are
young and fascinatin' aren't the best of housekeepers, per'aps."
Bessie stood silent for a minute, watching the vigorous rubbing of a
dish-cover. "You go and change your frock," Emily said, glancing up at
her. "Put on that black-and-white muslin you look your nicest in--"
"I ought to wear all black for a year, Emily."
"You put on your black and white," coaxed Emily.
Mrs. Day went to Franky's grave as had been foretold, but went a long way
round to it, going first for that walk by the river, which the child and
she had been wont to take together. Finding that particular spot on the
riverbank which had been so much in her thoughts since Mr. Boult had made
his offer, she sat down there with the deliberate intention of deciding
which course to take, out of the three open to her. To be turned, with her
children, homeless and penniless upon the world; to become Boult's wife;
to drown in the river.
An effort she made to keep her mind on these issues, but could only think,
instead, of Franky. Not of Franky as he had played by the river, happily
painted his pictures, rushed off noisily with the cutler's son to school,
but of Franky sitting to eat his bread-and-butter and radishes, one spring
afternoon, his plate on his knees, removed to a distance from the
tea-table, because Bessie had declared that he smelt of putty.
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