"We've got our mourning," she said to Peggy and the others gathered in Peggy's dirty kitchen. "We always have that on hand. Now we can leave off the long veils and put some false flowers on our bonnets—real spruce ones. They will lighten up the black. Them as has black gloves can wear them, but by carrying a clean handkercher real conspicuous, the gloom will be brightened some."
"I ain't had a pair of gloves in seventeen years," moaned Peggy.
"Well, you can sort of wind yer handkercher around your hands," comforted Isa.
"My feelings may be overcome," said Peggy; "they generally is in public, and then I'll have to use my handkercher and show my hands."
"You'll have to control yourself." Isa looked grim. "And, land o' love, a wedding ain't no place for wailing. Tate and me has given Joyce a real smart white dress, and she's trimmed her old hat all up with little frost flowers. She's a dabster at fixin' things. She's going to look real stylish. You know her mother was that way, though it was sorter knocked out of her, but the last thing she said to me was, 'Isa, I want you to put my grandmother's specs on me when I'm gone. Specs is dreadful stylish, and I've always looked forward to my eyes giving out so I could wear them. My eyes,' says she, 'has lasted better than me, but I want to be buried in my specs'; and so she was!"
The women all wiped their eyes.
"She was a powerful impressive corpse," whimpered Peggy, "but them specs gave me a terrible turn when I saw them first. The second look sorter took away the shock. I do hope," Peggy sighed, "I do hope them specs was long-distance ones. The good Lord knows Mrs. Birkdale had favourable reasons for seeing as far off as possible!"
"They was," Isa nodded. "I tried 'em, and things was all blurred to me."
And then the women parted gloomily, to meet again at Joyce's wedding.
It was such a day as only the mountains know. A hushed, golden day with a mysterious softness of outline on the distant hills.