She rocked idly back and forth amid her surroundings of squalid disorder, and paid no attention whatever to the piercing wails proceeding from a cradle in the middle of the room.
Rilla knew the woman by sight and reputation.

Her name was Mrs.
Conover; she lived down at the fishing village; she was a great-aunt of Mrs.Anderson; and she drank as well as smoked.
Rilla's first impulse was to turn and flee.

But that would never do.
Perhaps this woman, repulsive as she was, needed help--though she certainly did not look as if she were worrying over the lack of it.
"Come in," said Mrs.Conover, removing her pipe and staring at Rilla with her little, rat-like eyes.
"Is--is Mrs.Anderson really dead ?" asked Rilla timidly, as she stepped over the sill.
"Dead as a door nail," responded Mrs.Conover cheerfully.

"Kicked the bucket half an hour ago.

I've sent Jen Conover to 'phone for the undertaker and get some help up from the shore.