"They don't lay 'em out," remarked the other, unconcernedly, holding a brilliant pansy against her bilious countenance. "They roll 'em up in the sheet they die on, and bury 'em in the pasture."
Lilly's hands trembled over the bonnet she was lining.
"Well, good-day, Miss Bullins. I guess I'd better take the roses. I'm most too old for red. Get it done if you can. Good-day."
It went on so all day. At one time there was a rush for the window.
"It's Doctor Horton!" cried a pretty girl. "Oh my! Ain't he sweet? He's handsomer than ever, since he got so pale. I don't see how in the world Flossie Fairfield could do as she did. They say she's afraid to have him write to her."
"She loves her good looks more'n she does him, I guess," said another.
"And they to be married in the spring," said Miss Bullins, pathetically. "Lilly, here, was making her underclo'se, and they're a sight to see,—all hand-made, and so much lace in 'em that it ain't modest, I do declare!"
"If she got her deserts she wouldn't have no use for weddin' clo'se," said another, with acerbity; "not if I was Roger Horton."
"Wall, you ain't," said her companion, drily, "an' he ain't no different from other men, I guess."