“Not now,” she sighed. “It would be too soon a play. We must wait until we've got Willie off our hands—we must wait a year.”
“Wait a year!” and the pain of it bent the Undertaker like a willow. “Wait a year, dearest! Now, what's d' fun of that? You must take me for a farmer!” and his tones showed that the Undertaker was hurt.
“But in Herkimer County they wait a year,” faltered Arabella, wistfully.
“Sure! in Herkimer!” consented the Undertaker; “but that's Up-the-state. A week in Harlem is equal to a year in Herkimer. Let it be a week, love!”
“This isn't a game for Willie's life insurance?” and great crystals of pain and doubt swam in Arabella's glorious eyes.
“Oh, me love!” cried the Undertaker, fondly, yet desperately, “plant d' policy wit' Willie! Send it back to d' company if youse doubts me, an' tell 'em to call d' whole bluff a draw.”
The bit of paper, containing the epitaph, fluttered to the floor from her nerveless mits, her beautiful head sank on the broad shoulder of the Undertaker, and her tears flowed unrestrained.
IV
One week had passed since William Henry Weld was solemnly pigeon-holed for eternal reference.
The preacher received the couple in his study.