"Well, the Deacon's a slick one," some one observed, as if that were an excellent quality in an executor.
"They ain't no love lost between Bill Gray and Harkey, I don't expect."
"No, I don't think they is."
"Ike don't seem to please people. It's queer, too. He tries awful hard."
The voice of the preacher within, raised to a wild shout, interrupted them.
"The Elder's gettin' warmed up," said one of the story-tellers, pausing in his talk. "And so I told Bill if he wanted the cord-wood—"
The sun shone warmer, and the chickens caw-cawed feebly. The colts whinnied, and a couple of dogs rolled and tumbled in wild frolic, while the voice of the preacher sounded dolefully or in humming monotone.
Meanwhile, in the house, in the best room and in the best seats near the coffin, the women, in their black, worn dresses, with wrinkled, sallow faces and gnarled hands, sat shivering. Theirs was to be the luxury of the ceremony.
The carpet was damp and muddy, the house was chill, and the damp wind filled them all with ague; but they had so much to see and talk about, that time passed rapidly. Each one entering was studied critically to see whether dress and deportment were proper to the occasion or not, and if one of the girls smiled a little as she entered, some one was sure to whisper:—
"Heartless thing, how can she?"