“And now I know you are sorry for him. And yet you ’lowed if he was dead you would not go into mourning for him!”
“Yes, but I didn’t think he was dead then, or that he would ever die in my lifetime. I—I didn’t know,” said the widow, in a breaking voice that she tried hard to steady.
“Well! them as would understand a widdy, sez I, need to have a long head, sez I! I knowed as you was awful tender-hearted and pitiful, Mrs. Anglesea. But I ralely didn’t think as you’d take on about him.”
“I’m not taken on about nobody. But a woman needn’t be a wild Indian, or a heathen, or cannibal, I reckon. A Christian’s ’lowed to have some sort o’ feelin’s. Now let me read the rest of my letter.”
And she resumed the perusal of her epistle, but in silence. She read all the particulars of Anglesea’s death as they were given by Mrs. Force in her own writing, and also in the slips cut from the Angleton Advertiser and inclosed in the letter. All except the concluding paragraph of the eulogy, giving the statement of his two marriages. These were cut off, in kindness to her, who thought herself his lawful wife.
When she had finished she gave all into Miss Sibby’s hands, and sat and watched in moody silence while the old lady adjusted her spectacles and slowly read them through.
“They speak very highly of the poor man in that there newspaper. He must have repented of his sins and made a good end, after all,” said Miss Sibby, very solemnly, as she returned letters and papers into Mrs. Anglesea’s hands.
“It was very thoughtful of Mrs. Force to send me down this box of mourning—very thoughtful. And I am very thankful to her for it,” murmured the widow, as if speaking to herself.
“Then you will go in mourning for him?” said Miss Sibby.
“Of course I shall.”