Weel, the tears that wumman shed wis most awfu’ to see. I
tried to greet wi’ her for a while, thinkin’ I had the best richt,
being the nearest bluid relation o’ the deceased; but the tears
failed me at last, and I had to gie’t up. I min’ the first thing
she did wis to cover up the lookin’-gless, stop the nock, and
pu’ doon the blinds.
“An awfu’ like thing,” she said, “ to think o’ a corp i’ the hoose an’ the blinds no doon; but, puir lass, ye ken nae better, an’ yer faither has never been used to trouble. Noo, we maun get wax caun’les, Martha; but stop, whare does yer mither keep her dresses and things ? I maun see aboot the hoose, because there ’ll be odds and en’s wantet, and it’s no’ to be expected yer faither kens whare everything lies. Men are awfu’ senseless at a time like this, Martha. They can neither greet nor work, and they’re aye in yer road. Nae doot they think plenty; but if thinkin’ dings ye stupid and keeps ye frae workin’, what's the use o’t? There’s a heap to look to, lass, when death comes. Folk maun dae what lies to their han’ first an’ greet efter hin’. That, noo. But, Martha, lass, we maun hae the caun’les. It ’ll no dae to forget them. Bin you doon to the tallow chaunler’s i’ the High Street, an’ get twa o’ his best wax caun’les—min’, they maun be wax.”
When I left she wis rummagin’ through the kist o’ drawers an’ greetin’ a’ the time, as if her heart wud break.
Weel, what do you think, efter the funeral wis past and we had time to settle doon and look aboot us, we discovered that this same wumman, my auntie-in-law, Mrs. Babie Brewster, had helped hersel’ to the maist o’ my late mither’s dresses and underclothing, no’ to speak o’ a brent new pair o’ boots that had only been twice on; that, in fact, while she wis thrang sheddin’ tears for the dead, she wis as busy makin’ up her pack at the expense o’ the leevin’. The thing wud never have been dis-
