“A cent a song to begin with—if I take well, you can make it two.” Dan emptied the money into her ragged lap. “It’s about a dollar—and you can sing a hundred songs.” “At one performance?” “No, we’re going to South Wales and Pike and give our show.” “Thurley, come in quick, your ma’s took bad,” called a weak voice from within. “I guess she’ll have to be rubbed.” “I’ll have to go—thanks, Dan.” “Good-by, Thurley; I hope she’s not awful sick—to-morrow—” “To-morrow,” she waved one hand, the other holding the tattered dress skirt with its burden of coins. Half an hour later Mrs. Hawkins, coming to the box wagon to find out why the travellers had not appeared for their supper, found Thurley and her father kneeling beside the lounge. “She must have died just as I come in,” Mrs. Hawkins told the neighbors. “Poor little lamb, blessed if she didn’t start right in to comfort that miserable dad of hers! Well, I guess them hosses will stay unhitched for some time to come!” CHAPTER III The sale of the nags brought enough to pay for the burial of Mrs. Precore. After which Betsey Pilrig sent word to have some one wheel the wagon up to the empty pasture land, across from her house, where it could stay as long as was necessary, at least until they had enough money to buy more horses and go somewhere else. So the dingy white wagon was anchored across from Betsey Pilrig’s, to Philena’s delight, and, while Thurley’s father stayed inside to sob in half-drunken fashion about “his loss,” Thurley made rapid inroads on Betsey’s and Philena’s hearts. For that matter, she had made inroads upon the hearts of Birge’s Corners _en masse_. Even Lorraine loaned her a black hat for the funeral and stripped her garden of late blossoms to lay in the wasted fingers. Thurley had sung at her mother’s funeral. “They always have music,” she told them, and, besides, “it made her feel better inside.” So, standing at the newly dug grave, the curious mourners watched this long-legged, blue-eyed child-woman in every one’s discarded black clothes sing bravely: Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless thy little lambs to-night, In the darkness hear me calling, Lead me to eternal light— “It’s a wonder she knows any hymn tunes,” Submit Curler had whispered to Ali Baba. “Says she learned ’em from a gypsy evangelist,” Ali Baba answered, happy to be able to inform Submit Curler, rather than be informed. “She hasn’t a shoe for the winter,” Betsey Pilrig was telling Hopeful. “Don’t it seem sinful to think of Abby Clergy with her thousands?” Hopeful nodded. “But I wouldn’t dare to mention it. I’ve got some things of my own, Betsey. Come around after dark. Ain’t it a disgrace to have that man come drunk to his wife’s funeral? If God is just, Betsey, tell me why He gave that beautiful young ’un with an angel’s voice those parents?” But the minister began to pray, so Betsey was spared answering.