They seemed to belong to her but by fits and starts.

But the clothes were hers: the merino skirt a deal too short for her--she had grown almost an inch in her bed-lying-- the chip hat, more badly crushed than ever, a scandal of a hat, but still hers.

The dear, dear clothes! She held them in both hands and nuzzled into them, inhaling her lost self in the new-old scent of liberty.
When at length her hat was donned, the notion took her to stand by the sick woman's bed to show herself.
Consciousness had drained away deep into the sick woman's eyes.
It wavered there darkly, submerged, half-suspended, as you may see the weed waver in a dim seapool.

Did a bubble, a gleam, float up from the depths?
At any rate, the child nodded bravely.
"Goin' to fetch 'im, don't you fret!".