Butterfield had no kith or kin save her niece, Lyddy Ann, who lived
in Andover, or Lawrence, or Haverhill, Massachusetts--Aunt Hitty
couldn't remember which, and hoped nobody else could. The niece
would be sent for when they found out where she lived; meanwhile the
funeral could not be put off.

She glanced round the house preparatory to locking it up and starting
to notify Anthony Croft. She would just run over and talk to him
about ordering the coffin; then she could attend to all other
necessary preliminaries herself. The remains had been well-to-do,
and there was no occasion for sordid economy, so Aunt Hitty
determined in her own mind to have the latest fashion in everything,
including a silver coffin-plate. The Butterfield coffin-plates were
a thing to be proud of. They had been sacredly preserved for years
and years, and the entire collection--numbering nineteen in all--had
been framed, and adorned the walls of the deceased lady's best room.
They were not of solid silver, it is true, but even so it was a
matter of distinction to have belonged to a family that could afford
to have nineteen coffin-plates of any sort.

Aunt Hitty planned certain dramatic details as she walked down the
road to Croft's. It came to her in a burst of inspiration that she
would have two ministers: one for the long prayer, and one for the
short prayer and the remarks. She hoped that Elder Weeks would be
adequate in the latter direction. She knew she couldn't for the life
of her think of anything interesting to say about Mrs. Butterfield,
save that she possessed nineteen coffin-plates, and brought her hens
to Edgewood every summer for their health; but she had heard Elder
Weeks make a moving discourse out of less than that. To be sure, he
needed priming, but she would be equal to the occasion. There was