“Well, I don't kno',” said Uncle Davy—“you sho'ly ain't got no notion of marryin' agin, have you, Sally?”
“No—no—” said Aunt Sallie, thoughtfully, “but there aint no tellin' what a po' widder mout have to do if pushed to the wall.”
“Well,” sagely remarked Uncle Davy, “we'll jes' let it stan' as it is. It's like a dose of calomel for disorder of the stomach—if you need it it'll cure you, an' if you don't it won't hurt you. This thing of old folks fallin' in love ain't nothin' but a disorder of the stomach anyhow.”
Aunt Sally again protested a poor widow was often pushed to the wall and had to take advantage of circumstances, but Uncle Davy told the Bishop to read on.
At this point Tilly got up and left the room.
“'Fourth. I give and bequeath to my devoted daughter, Tilly, and her husband, Charles C. Biggers, all my personal property, including the crib up in the loft, the razor my grandfather left me, the old mare and her colt, the best bed in the parlor, and—'”
The Bishop stopped and looked serious.
“Davy, ain't you a trifle previous in this?” he asked.
“Not for a will,” he said. “You see this is supposed to happen and be read after you're dead. You see Charles has been to see her twice and writ a poem on her eyes.”
The Bishop frowned: “You'll have to watch that Biggers boy—he is a wild reckless rake an' not in Tilly's class in anything.”