two thousand dollars in the bank and a store full of goods, and a
paper thing you could cut tickets off of twice a year, and they
were just like money."

"They watched with my little sister Mira, too," said Rebecca.
"You remember when she died, and I went home to Sunnybrook Farm?
It was winter time, but she was covered with evergreen and white
pinks, and there was singing."

"There won't be any funeral or ministers or singing here, will
there? Isn't that awful?"

"I s'pose not; and oh, Emma Jane, no flowers either. We might get
those for her if there's nobody else to do it."

"Would you dare put them on to her?" asked Emma Jane, in a hushed
voice.

"I don't know; I can't tell; it makes me shiver, but, of course,
we COULD do it if we were the only friends she had. Let's look
into the cabin first and be perfectly sure that there aren't any.
Are you afraid?"

"N-no; I guess not. I looked at Gran'pa Perkins, and he was just
the same as ever."

At the door of the hut Emma Jane's courage suddenly departed. She
held back shuddering and refused either to enter or look in.
Rebecca shuddered too, but kept on, drawn by an insatiable
curiosity about life and death, an overmastering desire to know