The room was dark, and he lit a candle and put it on the mantelpiece. A sickly fire was smoldering on the hearth; and after raking the coals together and starting it to burn well with a few shingles, he threw a large piece of wood across the andirons, and sat down on the floor.
The place was orderly; the floor, spotlessly clean. Near the window was a deal table with a few dishes and pans on it, and a wooden bucket of drinking water and a dipper. Across from the chimney in the “guest corner” of the room, was a low cot covered with a patch-work quilt, a trophy from one of Carmelite’s raffles; a gay masterpiece of bewildering design which she called the “fifty revalashuns of de forty-seven wonders.” The walls were covered with newspapers, ornamented here and there with gay-colored circus posters and magazine covers; and the mantelshelf, decorated with a towering pyramid of empty coffee, tomato and baking-powder cans, bright and shining as “any natchal silver on de w’ite-folks side-boa’d.”
While Chester was fixing the fire, Lizzie had gone into the adjoining room and taken off her shoes and exchanged her “good street clo’se” for a “sloven fit”; so her body, as well as her mind, might enjoy perfect freedom of movement throughout the evening conference.
“Now, I kin talk to my natchal comfut,” she said to Chester, coming into the room and drawing a stool before the fire and sitting down near him.
Chester was all attention, so there was little need for useless preliminaries. Looking at the fire meditatively Lizzie began her interesting soliloquy, her voice low and quiet.
“Nobody can’t say that ole Aunt Milly didn’t have a fine burryin’,” she told him.... “Look like people had come from every direction to sing over Aunt Milly just for ole time sake; and because she come from so far away.... Look like some people shed tears over Aunt Milly because she was gone; and some for the good she did.... And she never knowed one woman her own color, old or young, to have so many fine flowers at one time; flowers so natchal till they looked artificial....
“But de one thing goin’ keep my min’ rollin’ for a long time,” she continued, stressing every word with dramatic fervor, “was de soun’ o’ dat water gluggin’ in de coffin w’en dey let Aun’ Milly down in de grave.... De same way you hyeah it go glug-glug-glug w’en you hol’ a empty bottle und’ de water, an’ de soun’ keep on’ gluggin’ till de bottle be filled up.... Yas, Lawd.
“It sho was a soun’ dat made me cunsider w’at I want y’all do wid me w’en de time come for puttin’ me away.... An’ Chester, I want you look to it; you hyeah me?... You know dis lan’ is a swampy lan’; an’ it hol’s de water a long time; ’specially aft’ a heavy rain bin fall. An’ you kin bail de water out a grave much as you want, but you can’ keep it from seepin’ back in agin.... So you make ’um put me way up on a top shelf in dat big tomb ’long-side de back fence, yonder in de Gates o’ Mary, high an’ dry out de flood. ’Cause I sho don’ wan’ think ’bout bein’ drownded aft’ I done died in my bed natchal.... No Lawd, not me!”
“Sho mus’ bin made Aun’ Amy felt bad,” Chester commiserated.
“Who?” Lizzie exclaimed with sudden animation. “Aun’ Amy ain’ knowed a single thing w’at went on w’en dey put Aun’ Milly way.... She fell to sleep in de ca’idge on de way to de graveyard; an’ w’en dey reached de place, an’ wan’ try an’ make Aun’ Amy git out an’ walk to de grave-side, leadin’ de moaners; de po’ ole soul was so helpless drunk, dey had to leave ’uh settin’ up in de ca’idge in de road.... An’ she ain’ took no part in none de excitement.”