ere was Mary Peebles, ez
was daughter of my wife's bosom friend--a mighty pooty girl and a
professing Christian--died of scarlet fever. Well, that gal--I was one
of the mourners, being my wife's friend--well, that gal, though I
hedn't, perhaps, oughter say--lying in that casket, fetched all the way
from some A1 establishment in Chicago, filled with flowers and
furbelows--didn't really seem to be of much account. Well, although my
wife's friend, and me a mourner--well, now, I was--disappointed and
discouraged."

The Other Man (in palpably affected sympathy): "Sho! now!"

"Yes, SIR! Well, you see, this yer ondertaker, this Wilkins, hed a way
of correctin' all thet. And just by manniperlation. He worked over
the face of the deceased ontil he perduced what the survivin' relatives
called a look of resignation,--you know, a sort of smile, like. When
he wanted to put in any extrys, he perduced what he called--hevin'
reglar charges for this kind of work--a Christian's hope."

The Other Man: "I want to know."

"Yes. Well, I admit, at times it was a little startlin'. And I've
allers said (a little confidentially) that I had my doubts of its being
Scriptoorl, or sacred, we being, ez you know, worms of the yearth; and
I relieved my mind to our pastor, but he didn't feel like interferin',
ez long ez it was confined to church membership. But the other day,
when Cy Dunham died--you disremember Cy Dunham?"

A long interval of silence. The Other Man was looking out of the
window, and had apparently forgotten his companion completely. But as
I stretched my head out of the curtain I saw four other heads as
eagerly reached out from other berths to hear the conclusion of the
story. One head, a female one, instantly disappeared on my looking
around, but a certain tremulousness of her window-curtain showed an
unabated interest. The only two utterly disinterested men were the One
Man and the Other Man.

The Other Man (detaching himself languidly from the window): "Cy
Dunham?"

"Yes; Cy never hed hed either convictions or purfessions. Uster get
drunk and go round with permiscous women. Sorter like the prodigal
son, only a little more so, ez fur ez I kin judge from the facks ez
stated to me. Well, Cy one day petered out down at Little Rock, and
was sent up yer for interment. The fammerly, being proud-like, of
course didn't spare no money on that funeral, and it waz--now between
you and me--about ez shapely and first-clas