She was as sprightly a person as ever I
see; an' could speak well o' what she'd seen."
"Did she die to sea?" asked Peggy, with interest.
"No, she died to home between v'y'ges, or she'd gone to sea again. I
was to her funeral. She liked her son George's ship the best; 'twas
the one she was going on to Callao. They said the men aboard all
called her 'gran'ma'am,' an' she kep' 'em mended up, an' would go
below and tend to 'em if they was sick. She might 'a' been alive an'
enjoyin' of herself a good many years but for the kick of a cow; 'twas
a new cow out of a drove, a dreadful unruly beast."
Mrs. Dow stopped for breath, and reached down for a new supply of
beans; her empty apron was gray with soft chaff. Betsey Lane, still
pondering on the Centennial, began to sing another verse of her hymn,
and again the old women joined her. At this moment some strangers came
driving round into the yard from the front of the house. The turf was
soft, and our friends did not hear the horses' steps. Their voices
cracked and quavered; it was a funny little concert, and a lady in an
open carriage just below listened with sympathy and amusement.
II.
"Betsey! Betsey! Miss Lane!" a voice called eagerly at the foot of the
stairs that led up from the shed. "Betsey! There's a lady here wants
to see you right away."
Betsey was dazed with excitement, like a country child who knows the
rare pleasure of being called out of school. "Lor', I ain't fit to go
down, be I?" she faltered, looking anxiously at her friends; but Peggy
was gazing even nearer to the zenith than usual, in her excited effort
to see down into the yard, and Mrs.
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