The girl felt a sudden pity. Her Aunt Ann Eliza Dix had been lying in her grave for ten years, but she could not contradict the poor man. “Of course,” she said. “How do you do?”
The old man’s face lit up. “I knew I was right,” he said. “I forget, you see, sometimes, but this time I was sure. How are you, Ann Eliza?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“How is Cephas?”
“He is well, too.”
“And your father?”
Ellen shivered a little. It was rather bewildering. This strange old man must mean her grandfather, who had died before her Aunt Ann Eliza. She replied faintly that he was well, and hoped, with a qualm of ghastly mirth, that she was speaking the truth. Ellen’s grandfather had not been exactly a godly man, and the family seldom mentioned him.
“He means well, Ann Eliza, if sometimes you don’t exactly like the way he does,” said the living old man, excusing the dead one for the faults of his life.
“I know he does,” said Ellen. The desire to laugh grew upon her.
She was relieved when the stranger changed the subject. She felt that she would become hysterical if this forcible resurrection of her dead relatives continued.