"You don't say!" said Mrs. Deans; "you don't say! When was he took?"
"It don't tell," answered her husband, screwing his eyes horribly as he read the obituary over again. "It don't tell—oh—yes it does! 'Caught a heavy cold a month ago and settled on his lungs.' Well, he's gone, then."
"Not much loss, his kind ain't," said Mrs. Deans contemptuously.
"Wonder if he forgot me before he went?" said her husband, with a reflective enjoyment. "That was a pretty good one, wasn't it, Jane?"
"Yes; no mistake about it, Henry, you hit the nail on the head that time. I declare it does beat all how time flies. Just think! it's six years full since then——"
"Six years full—no, seven," assented Mr. Deans.
"No, six," said his wife; "it was just the year before your accident."
"So 'twas." A pause, then he said, "I think I'll have some sarsaparilly, Jane."
Mrs. Deans got a spoon from the table-drawer, drew out the gummy cork, and gave him a spoonful.
"Better have a taste yourself," he suggested.