"Do you s'pose I'm goin' to let it pass an' die away, an' folks
forget him, an' not have any funeral or anything? I made up my mind
I'd wait until nine o'clock to-night, an' then, if he wa'n't found, I
wouldn't wait any longer. I'd get ready for the funeral. I've sent
over for Paulina Maria and your aunt B'lindy to come in an' help.
Henry come over here to see if I'd heard anything, and I told him to
go right home an' tell his mother to come, an' stop on the way an'
tell Paulina Maria. There's a good deal to do before two o'clock
to-morrow afternoon, an' I can't do much myself; somebody's got to
help. In the mornin' you'll have to take the horse an' go over to the
West Corners, an' tell Amelia an' her mother an' Lyddy Stokes's
folks. There won't be any time to send word to the Greens over in
Westbrook. They're only second-cousins anyway, an' they 'ain't got
any horse, an' I dun'no' as they'd think they could afford to hire
one. Now you take that fork an' go an' lift the cover off that
kettle, an' stick it into the dried apples, an' see if they've begun
to get soft."

Ann Edwards's little triangular face had grown plainly thinner and
older in three days, but the fire in her black eyes still sparkled.
Her voice was strained and hoarse on the high notes, from much
lamentation, but she still raised it imperiously. She held the wooden
mixing-bowl in her lap, and stirred with as desperate resolution,
compressing her lips painfully, as if she were stirring the dregs of
her own cup of sorrow.

Pretty soon there were voices outside and steps on the path. The door
opened, and two women came in. One was Paulina Maria, Adoniram Judd's
wife; the other was Belinda, the wife of Ozias Lamb.