in the lonely egg on the lonely slice of dry toast. I was thinking about
things.

Hillsboro is a very peculiar little speck on the universe; even more
peculiar than being like a hen. It is one of the oldest towns in the
North, and the moss on it is so thick that it can't be scratched off
except in spots. But when it does get stirred up to take an interest in
anything, it certainly goes the pace. It hasn't had any real excitement
for a long time, and I felt that it needed it. I rolled over and laughed
into my pillow.

The subject of the conduct of widows is a serious one. Of all the things
old Tradition is most set about, it is that; and what was decided to be
the proper thing a million years ago this town still dictates shall be
done, and spends a good deal of its time seeing its directions carried
out.

For a year after the funeral they forget about the poor bereaved, and
when they do remember her they speak to and of her in the same tones of
voice they used at the obsequies. Then sooner or later some neighbour
is sure to see some man walk home from church with her, or hear some
masculine voice in her front garden. Mr. Blake gave Mrs. Caruther's
little Jessie a ride in his trap and helped her out at her mother's gate
just before last Christmas, and if the poor widow hadn't acted quickly
the town would have noticed them to death before he proposed to her.
They were married the day after New Year's Day, and she lost lots of
good friends because she didn't give them more time to talk about it.

I don't intend to run any risk of losing my friends that way, and I want
them to have all the enjoyment they can get out of it. I'm going to