"I'm breaking down my black alpaccy," was the reply. "I'm goin' to have it made over, and trimmed with crape."
"Trimmed with crape? What for?"
"Oh! I'm a widow now."
"A widow!"
"Yes, Peter's gone. I knew he couldn't last much longer. He's been failin', gradual, for a week. You must ha' noticed it."
"But I didn't think," Patty began, wondering how to phrase the condolences it seemed proper to offer under the circumstances.
"No, nor I didn't, neither," the widow remarked, as she hesitated. "I thought he'd hold out longer, or I'd have been more forehanded with my black dress. Anyway I'm glad he got through it before cold weather sot in. It's easier for him. And, besides, Mrs. Brown's house is awful draughty, spec'ly as she never gets ready to have it banked before spring."
"If we can do any thing for you," Patty said, exerting herself to preserve a grave face, "we shall be glad to."
"Thank you kindly," the servant answered. "I'll let you know if there is. I never had much comfort as Peter's wife," she added; "for he was real onery, as you might say: but it's some satisfaction to be his widow; widows are so respectable."