"'This,' s'I, 'is a friend o' mine. She's goin' to do up Jennie's hair from her City photograph.'
"Then I hustled 'Leven into the parlour where Jennie was layin' under the soft lavender cloth. Nobody was in there but a few flowers, sent early. An' it was a west window an' open, an' the sky all sunset—like the End. 'Leven hung back, but I took her by the hand an' we went an' looked down at Jennie in that nice, gentlin', after-supper light—'Leven in Jennie's shroud an' neither of 'em knew it.
"An' all out o' the air somethin' says to me, Now—now—like it will when you get so's you listen. I always think it's like the Lord had pressed His bell somewheres for help in His housekeepin'—oh, because how He needs it!
"So I says, ''Leven, you never see anybody dead before. What's the differ'nce between her an' you?'
"'She can't move,' 'Leven says, starin' down.
"'Yes, sir,' s'I, 'that's it. She's through doin' the things she was born to do, an' you ain't.'
"With that 'Leven looks at me.
"'I can't do nothin',' she says again.
"'Why, then,' says I, brisk, 'you're as good as dead, an' we'd best bury you, too. What do you think the Lord wants you 'round for?'
"An' she didn't say nothin', only stood fingerin' the shroud she wore.