Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign of her great age. As she herself said, she had her wits and her teeth, and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been to market and had brought all the news with her marketing.
"Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree—he give me a turn just now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable time.
"'I ain't no notion,' says he.
"'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says.
"'Just what I say,' says he.
"'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know. She has consid'able kin 'round here.
"'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I lef her in the burying ground, that's all I know.'
"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses."
Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree sat alive and alert and called:
"Direxia!"