"I should think," said I, looking at the little board slips and crosses among the pine cones on the ground,—"I should think they would like to have something nicer to put up over their graves."
"Nicer? those are good enough," said Preston. "Good enough for them."
"I should think they would like to have something better," I said. "Poor people at the North have nicer monuments, I know. I never saw such monuments in my life."
"Poor people!" cried Preston. "Why these are the hands, Daisy,—the coloured people. What do they want of monuments?"
"Don't they care?" said I, wondering.
"Who cares if they care? I don't know whether they care," said Preston, quite out of patience with me, I thought.
"Only, if they cared, I should think they would have something nicer," I said. "Where do they all go to church, Preston?"
"Who?" said Preston.
"These people?"
"What people? The families along the river do you mean?"