It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.
The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman’s face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.
“Nobody shall go near her,” said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. “Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you’ve a life to lose!”
“Nonsense, my good man,” said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. “Nonsense!”
“I tell you,” said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor—“I tell you I won’t have her put into the ground. She couldn’t rest there. The worms would worry her—not eat her—she is so worn away.”
The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.