“Yes,” says I, “most probable I shall.”
“Wall,” says he, “I will put in a letter with you when you write. It haint the postage that is the stick with me, it haint the 3 cents I mind. But if I can’t, after all my efforts, see my way clear to marry her, it would seem more cruel and cold-blooded in me, to have gin her the encouragement of sendin her a letter by myself, all stamped and paid for by me, than it would to send it in with somebody else.” Says he, “Don’t you think so?”
Says I[Says I] in a sort of a blind way, “I think of a great many things that it wouldn’t do to tell of.”
“Yes,” says he, “you probable pity me, and realize the situation I am placed in, more than you feel free to tell. You probable think that sympathy would break me down—make me feel worse.”
“Yes,” says I firmly, “I don’t feel free to tell my opinion of you. It would be apt to make you feel worse.”
“You are a woman of principle, Josiah Allen’s wife, and a woman of strong sense. You realize my situation—you feel for the condition of my heart.”
“Yes, and your head too,” says I; “I realize jist what has ailed you, ever sense you was born. But,” says I, wantin’ to turn the subject, for I was sick of it, sick as a dog. Says I “you wuzn’t to meetin’ last night wuz you?” Says I, “We wimmen talked it over after the meetin’, and we are goin to take up a collection to make Miss Bamber a present of a new black dress. We are goin’ to ask each church-member to give jest one sixpence, and one sixpence apiece from the 250 members will get her a good bumbazeen dress, or a very nice alpacka. And so,” says I, “I thought I would ask you for your sixpence.”
Knowin’ it is Kellup’s duty to be tackled for the good of the meetin-house, I will, no matter whether he will give anything or not, I will insist on tacklin’ him.
Says I, “You know Miss Bamber has lost her mother-in-law and wants to mourn for her—wants to the worst kind, and can’t.”
“Why can’t she mourn?” says Kellup.