"'I ain't no notion!' says he.
"'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says.
"'Just what I say,' says he.
"'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know. She has consid'able kin round here.
"'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I left her in the bur'in'-ground, that's all I know.'
"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month, and I never knew the first word about it. They're all sing'lar people, them Butterses. She was a proper nice woman, though, this Mis' Butters. He had hopes of Di-plomy one spell, after his last died—she was a reg'lar fire-skull; he didn't have much peace while she lived—died in a tantrum too, they say; scol't so hard she bust a vessel, and it run all through her, and car'd her off—but Di-plomy couldn't seem to change her state, no more'n Miss Phœbe 'n' Vesty.
"My sakes! if there ain't Miss Vesty comin' now. I'll hasten and put away these things, Mis' Tree, and be back to let her in."
Miss Vesta Blyth came soberly along the street and up the garden path. She was a quaint and pleasant picture, in her gown of gray and white foulard, with her little black silk mantle and bonnet. Some thirty years ago Miss Vesta and her sister Miss Phœbe had decided that fashion was a snare; and since then they had always had their clothes made on the same model, to the despair of Prudence Pardon, the dressmaker.
But when one looked at Vesta Blyth's face, one was not apt to think about her clothes; one rather thought, what a pity one must look away from her presently! At least, that was what Geoffrey Strong used to say, a young man who loved Miss Vesta, and who was now gone away with his young wife, leaving sore hearts behind.
Direxia Hawkes came out on the porch to meet the visitor, closing the door behind her for an instant.