"Oh, they come and take him away to prison. And then they put a rope
round his neck and hang him like Haman, and he goes to hell."
"Wha-at! Do they kill him?"
"Because he's a murderer. They always do."
"Oh, don't let's tell them! Don't let's tell them!" she
screamed.
"Shut up!" said the boy, "or he'll wake up. We must tell them, or we
go to hell--both of us."
But his sister did not collapse at this awful threat, as he expected,
though the tears were rolling down her face. "Don't let's tell them,"
she sobbed.
"You're a horrid girl, and you'll go to hell," said the boy, in
disgust. But the silence was only broken by her sobbing. "I tell you
he killed mother dead. You didn't cry a bit for mother; I did."
"Oh, let's ask mother! Let's ask mother! I know she won't want father
to go to hell. Let's ask mother!"
"Mother's dead, and can't hear, you stupid," said the boy. "I keep on
telling you. Come up and look."
They were both a little awed in mother's room. It was so quiet, and
mother looked so funny. And first the girl shouted, and then the boy,
and then they shouted both together, but nothing happened. The echoes
made them frightened.
"Perhaps she's asleep," the girl said; so her brother pinched one of
mother's hands--the white one, not the red one--but nothing
happened, so mother was dead.
"Has she gone to hell?" whispered the girl.
"No! she's gone to heaven, because she's good. Only wicked people go
to hell.
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