all to laughing, and Betsey looked at her elbows, to see if they were in
the right place.

"Will you please, ma'am," said Prudy, "ask Betsey to _hot_ a flatiron?
I've cried my handkerchief all up!"

"Yes; go right out, Betsey, and _hot_ a flatiron," said Mrs. Piper, very
hospitably. "Go out, this instant, and build a fire, Betsey."

"Yes, go right out, Betsey," echoed Mr. Piper, who could find nothing
better to do than to repeat his wife's words; for, in spite of himself,
she did appear to be the "head of the family."

"It was my darlin' husband's handkerchief," sobbed Prudy.

"Rather a small one for a man," said Mr. Piper, laughing.

"Well," replied Prudy, rather quick for a thought, "my husband had a
very small nose!"

Mrs. Piper tried to make more "conversation."

"O, Mrs. Shotwell, you ought to be exceeding thankful you're a widow,
and don't keep house! I think my hired girls will carry down my gray
hairs to the grave! The last one I had was Irish, and very Catholic."

Prudy groaned for sympathy, and wiped her eyes on that corner of her
handkerchief which was supposed to be not quite "cried up."

"Yes, indeed, it was awful," continued Mrs. Piper; "for she was always