"I don't know's you are 'xactly; but somehow you did look like her, up-stairs to-day, when you had them white things tied on your head."
"Were you here when she died?" I asked.
"Oh, yes!"—old Chloe closed her eyes,—"it is one of the blessed things Chloe's Lord will let her 'member, up there;" and Chloe wiped her eyes, in memoriam.
"I don't remember her," I said.
"No, how should you? you were wee little then."
"What made her die, Chloe?"
"I reckon 't was because the angels wanted her more 'n me, Miss Anna."
"Was she sick, Chloe?"
"How queer you questions, Miss Anna! Of course she was sick; she drooped in the August heat; they didn't think she was very sick; the master gave her some medicine one night, and left her sleeping, quiet as a lamb, and before morning came she went to heaven."
"Who was the master, Chloe?"