“What is the matter?” says I in a cheerful tone.
“I feel lonely,” says she, “more lonely than I have felt for yeahs.”
Again says I kindly but firmly—
“What is the matter, Betsey?”
“I had a dream last night, Josiah Allen’s wife.”
“What was it?” says I in a sympathizin’ accent, for she did look meloncholly and sad indeed.
“I dreamed I was married, Josiah Allen’s wife,” says she in a heart-broken tone, and she laid her hand on my arm in her deep emotion. “I tell you it was hard after dreamin’ that, to wake up again to the cold realities and cares of this life; it was hard,” she repeated, and a tear gently flowed down her Roman nose and dropped off onto her overskirt. She knew salt water would spot otter color awfully, and so she drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, and spread it in her lap, (it was white trimmed with narrow edgein’) and continued—
“Life seemed so hard and lonesome to me, that I sot up in the end of the bed and wept. I tried to get to sleep again, hopin’ I would dream it ovah, but I could not.”
And again two salt tears fell in about the middle of the handkerchief. I see she needed consolation, and my gratitude made me feel soft to her, and so says I in a reasurin’ tone—