"Who will you git?" asked Amarilly interestedly.

"I'll hev the preacher from the meetin'-house on the hill, Brother
Longgrass."

"I wonder," speculated Amarilly, "if he'd like to wear the surplus?"

Foremost as the plumes of Henry of Navarre in battle were the surplice
and the renting thereof in Amarilly's vision.

"I don't expect he could do that," replied Mrs. Hudgers doubtfully. "His
church most likely wouldn't stand fer it. Brother Longgrass is real kind
if he ain't my sort. He's agoin' to let the boys run the maylodeun down
here the night afore the funyral."

"Who's agoin' to sing?"

"I dunno yit. I left it to the preacher. He said he'd git me a picked
choir, whatever that may be."

"My! But you'll hev a fine funeral!" exclaimed Amarilly admiringly.

"I allers did say that when Hallie got merried, or died, things should
be done right. Thar's jest one thing I can't hev."

"What's that, Mrs. Hudgers?"

"Why, you see, Amarilly, Hallie's clo'es air sort of shabby-like, and
when we git him in that shiny new caskit, they air agoin' to show up
orful seedy. But I can't afford ter buy him a new suit jest for this