It's
that. My soul! how things come back! Talk about spirits! There's no
need of 'em! _Things_ are full bad enough!"
Isabel lifted out a small brown paper package, labeled in a cramped
handwriting. She held it to the fading light. "'Slippery elm left by my
dear father from his last illness,'" she read, with difficulty. "'The
broken piece used by him on the day of his death.'"
"My land!" exclaimed aunt Luceba weakly. "Now what'd she want to keep
that for? He had it round all that winter, an' he used to give us a
little mite, to please us. Oh, dear! it smells like death. Well, le's
lay it aside an' git on. The light's goin', an' I must jog along. Take
out that dress. I guess I know what 't is, though I can't hardly
believe it."
Isabel took out a black dress, made with a full, gathered skirt and an
old-fashioned waist. "'Dress made ready for aunt Mercy,'" she read,
"'before my dear uncle bought her a robe.' But, auntie," she added,
"there's no back breadth!"
"I know it! I know it! She was so large they had to cut it out, for
fear 't wouldn't go into the coffin; an' Monroe Giles said she was a
real particular woman, an' he wondered how she'd feel to have the back
breadth of her quilted petticoat showin' in heaven.
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