The old woman had folded her bonnet in her lap and was holding her rough hands out to the fire. She smiled as if vaguely pleased, and yet she shook her head.
“No, don’t ax me that, girls,” she said. “I’ve got ways an’ habits that ain’t one bit like yore’n. I’d feel out o’ place anywhar except in my cabin. I couldn’t change at my time o’ life. Joe’s workin’ fer me, an’ he’ll never marry. He hates the sight of a woman. He says they meddle. He’s waitin’ fer me now outside, an’ I reckon I ort to be a-goin’.”
“But not till after—after the funeral,” said Susie.
“Yes, honey. I don’t think I ort to wait. I’ve got lots to do at home. My cows are to feed an’ milk, an’ it’s a long drive. It’ll be in the night when we git home. Remember, me an’ yore mother hain’t been intimate sence we was childern. I’m her sister by blood, but not by raisin’, an’ I hain’t the same sort o’ mourner as you-uns, an’ don’t think I ort to pass as one in public. I wouldn’t feel exactly natural, that’s all.”
The Governor’s son nodded his head as if he agreed with her, and the girls silently gave her her wish.
A Remorseful Regret
“IF I’d only married her!” muttered Tanquerly, with the bitter regret of a lost soul bewailing vanished opportunities.
I thought of the sweet little wife he had at home, and was swamped with surprise.
“Oh, if I’d only married her!” he repeated, still more intensely.