"Did her husband ever suspect that she was unhappy?" I asked.
"Lord no, ma'am! Or ef he did he never let on! An' I never seen sich a man! There wasn't nothin' he didn't git her while she was sick, an' her coffin was a sight! An' he goes to her grave, rain or shine, as reg'lar as Sunday comes."
As I have said, several years have passed since Phenie's death, but Mrs. Angel's visits have never ceased. The lapse of time has left hardly any traces upon her comely exterior. In times of plenty, her soul expands gleefully and the brown-paper parcels multiply. In times of dearth, she sits, an elderly Niobe, and weeps out her woes upon my hearth-stone. The black satchel, too, by some occult power, has resisted the wear and tear of years and exposure to the elements, and continues to swallow up my substance insatiably as of yore. Occasionally, as I have said, something within me rises in arms against her quiet, yet persistent encroachments, but this is a transitory mood. Her next visit puts my resolutions to flight.
Standard Works of Fiction,
PUBLISHED BY
Charles Scribner's Sons.