“Well, I declare; and you could 'a looked right in?”
“If I'd been a mind to.”
“Who has died?” I ask.
“It's old woman Larue; she lived on Gilead Hill, mostly alone. It's better for her.”
“Had she any friends?”
“One darter. They're takin' her over Eden way, to bury her where she come from.”
“Was she a good woman?” The traveler is naturally curious to know what sort of people die in Nova Scotia.
“Well, good enough. Both her husbands is dead.”
The gossips continued talking of the burying. Poor old woman Larue! It was mournful enough to encounter you for the only time in this world in this plight, and to have this glimpse of your wretched life on lonesome Gilead Hill. What pleasure, I wonder, had she in her life, and what pleasure have any of these hard-favored women in this doleful region? It is pitiful to think of it. Doubtless, however, the region isn't doleful, and the sentimental traveler would not have felt it so if he had not encountered this funereal flitting.
But the horses are in. We mount to our places; the big doors swing open.