‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he returned, despatched Abraham and Obadiah to the northwest corner of the church, placed Quilt behind a buttress near the porch, and sheltered himself behind one of the mighty elms. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. It is better to face the truth. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket.
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