“Don’t, Thaddeus--please don’t!” she interrupted. “I--I don’t want ter talk.” And she rose unsteadily to her feet and moved toward the kitchen door.
For a time Mrs. Clayton went about her work in a silence quite unusual, while her husband watched her with troubled eyes. His heart grieved over the bowed head and drooping shoulders, and over the blurred eyes that were so often surreptitiously wiped on a corner of the gingham apron. But at the end of a week the little old woman accosted him with a face full of aggressive yet anxious determination.
“Thaddeus, I want ter speak ter you about somethin’. I’ve been thinkin’ it all out, an’ I’ve decided that I’ve got ter kill one of us off.”
“Harriet!”
“Well, I have. A fun’ral is the only thing that will fetch Jehiel and--”
“Harriet, are ye gone crazy? Have ye gone clean mad?”
She looked at him appealingly.
“Now, Thaddeus, don’t try ter hender me, please. You see it’s the only way. A fun’ral is the--”
“A ’fun’ral’--it’s murder!” he shuddered.
“Oh, not ter make believe, as I shall,” she protested eagerly. “It’s--”