Again Mrs. Pennycook sniffed. “Well, then, I suppose Mr. Tillingham, of the Universal Church—”
Donna interrupted. “Mamma always knew she would be taken from me without warning, and she often told me not to give her an expensive funeral. I think she would have liked some services but I can't afford them.”
“But, dearie, that's so barbarous like!” exclaimed the dismayed Samaritan. “There ought to be some one to say some prayers an' sing a hymn or two.”
“Mamma always said she wanted to be buried simply. She thought it was sweet and beautiful to have services, but not essential. She was always skimping and saving for me, Mrs. Pennycook. She said I wasn't to wear mourning; that the—living needed more prayers than—the—dead. She—she said that when she was gone God would be good to her and that—I—she said I would need all the money we had.”
“A-a-h-h-h!” breathed Mrs. Pennycook. She understood now. What a baggage the girl was! How heartless, begrudging her poor dead mother the poor comfort of a Christian burial, because she wanted the money for herself! Privately Mrs. Pennycook prophesied a bad ending for Donnie Corblay. She winked knowingly at her husband, then with truly feminine sarcasm:
“Well, at least, Donna, you'll have to buy a coffin an' a grave an' have the grave dug—”
“Sam Singer will attend to that. I'm going to bury mamma among the flowers at the end of our garden. I'll have a nice plain coffin made in San Pasqual—”
“Oh!” Mrs. Pennycook trembled.
“Mamma always said,” Donna continued, “that undertakers preyed on the dead and traded in human grief, and for me not to engage one for her funeral. I'm going to do just what she told me to do, Mrs. Pennycook.”
“Quite right, Donnie, quite right” interjected Mr. Pennycook. He was an impulsive creature and even under the hypnotic eye of Mrs. P. he sometimes broke out of bounds.