"May I ask, sir, why——"
"Yes, ma'am, ask any thing—I implore you to ask any thing. I am so overcome by the idea of your goodness towards the blessed defunct, and by the sense of the dooty which my profession——"
"What profession, sir?" asked Mrs. Smith, point-blank.
"Ah! my dear madam," answered the stranger, with a shake of the head more solemn than any he had yet delivered himself of, "I exercise the profession of undertaker."
"Undertaker!" ejaculated the widow, a light breaking in upon her as she thought of the systematic measurement of the body.
"Undertaker and furnisher of funerals, ma'am, on the most genteel and economic principles."
"Well—I raly took you for a minister," said Mrs. Smith, somewhat disappointed.
"Excellent woman! your goodness flatters me," ejaculated the undertaker. "But here is my card, ma'am—Edward Banks, you perceive—Globe Lane. Ah! my dear madam, I knew your dear deceased husband well! Often and oft have we chanted the same hymn together in the parish church; and often have we drunk together out of the same pewter at the Spotted Dog."
Mournful, indeed, was the shake of the head that accompanied this latter assurance; and the undertaker once more had recourse to his dingy pocket-handkerchief.
The widow used the corner of her apron.