"I don't mean grieving," said Lucy; "I mean worrying and fretting."
"Well, yes," admitted Mrs. Wiggs, taking a hot iron from the stove, "I 've done that, too. I remember onct last winter I was tooken sick, an' I got to pesterin' 'bout what the childern 'ud do if I died. They wasn't no money in the house, an' they didn't know where to git none. All one night I laid there with my head 'most bustin', jes' worryin' 'bout it. By an' by I was so miserable I ast the Lord what I mus' do, an' he tole me." There was absolute conviction in her tone and manner. "Nex' mornin'," she went on, "soon's I could I went over to the 'spensary an' ast fer the chief doctor.
"'Doctor,' I sez, 'don't you buy corpses?'
"'Yes,' sez he, lookin' kinder funny.
"'Well,' sez I, 'I want to sell mine.'
"Then I tole him all 'bout it, an' ast him if he wouldn't take my body after I was gone, an' give the money to the childern.
"'Will you put it in writin',' sez he.
"'Yes,' sez I, 'if you'll do the same.'
"So he drawed up the papers, an' we both signed, an' a man with a spine in his back an' a lady with the rheumatiz witnessed it. So you see," concluded Mrs. Wiggs, "I didn't die; you mark my words, it ain't never no use puttin' up yer umbrell' till it rains!"
Lucy laughed. "Well, you certainly practise what you preach."