e dies. Large
ones and small, of course, and lotions and all. He takes every new
thing that comes along, reg'lar. He has his wife's bottles all arranged
in a shape, kind o' monument-like. They do say he wanted to set them up
on her grave, but I guess that's only talk."

"How long ago did she die?" asked Rose.

"Three year ago, it is now!" said Mrs. Brett. "Dosed herself to death,
we all thought. She was just like him! Folks used to say they had pills
and catnip-tea for dinner the day they was married. You know how folks
will talk! It's a fact though"--here she lowered her voice--"and I'd
ought not to gossip about my neighbors, nor I don't among themselves
much, but strangers seem different somehow,--anyhow, it _is_ a fact that
he wanted to put a scandalous inscription on her monument in the
cemetery, and Abner wouldn't let him; the only time Abner ever stood
out against his father, as I know of."

"What was the inscription?" asked Hildegarde, trying hard to look as
grave as the subject required.

"Well,--you mustn't say I told you!" said the Widow Brett, lowering her
voice still more, and looking about with an air of mystery,--"'t was

'Phosphoria helped her for a spell;
But Death spoke up, and all is well.'

'Sh! you mustn't laugh!" she added, as the three young people broke into
peals of laughter. "There! I'd ought not to have told. He didn't _mean_
nothing improper, only to express resignation to the will o' Providence.
Well, there! the tongue's an onruly member. And so you young ladies
thought you'd like to see Bixby, did ye?" she added, for the third or
fourth time. "Well, I'm sure! Bixby'd oughter be proud. 'T _is_ a
sightly place, I've always thought. You must go over t' the cemetery
to-morrow, and see what there is to see."

"Yes, we did want to see Bixby," answered straightforward Hildegarde;
"but we came still more to see you, Mrs. Brett. Indeed, we have a very
important message for you."

And beginning at the beginning, Hildegarde unfolded the great scheme.
Mrs. Brett listened, wide-eyed, following the recital with appreciative
motions of lips and hands. When it was over, she seemed for once at a
loss for words.

"I--well, there!" she said; and she crumpled up her apron, and then
smoothed it out again. "I--why, I don't know what _to_ say. Well! I'm
completely, as you may say, struck of a heap. I don't know what
Marthy's thinking of, I'm sure. It isn't _me_ you want, surely. You
wa