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If you can make some genteel allusions to her； it'll be much
appreciated by his folks。〃
As to the long prayer； she knew that the Rev。 Mr。 Ford could be relied
on to pray until aunt Becky Burnham should twitch him by the coat tails。
She had done it more than once。 She had also； on one occasion；
got up and straightened his ministerial neckerchief； which he had gradually
〃prayed〃 around his saintly neck until it was behind the right ear。
These plans proved so fascinating to aunt Hitty that she walked
quite half a mile beyond Croft's； and was obliged to retrace her steps。
She conceived bands of black alpaca for the sleeves and hats
of the pallbearers； and a festoon of the same over the front gate；
if there should be any left over。 She planned the singing by the choir。
There had been no real choir…singing at any funeral in Edgewood since
the Rev。 Joshua Beckwith had died。 She would ask them to open with
Rebel mourner； cease your weepin'。
You too must die。
This was a favorite funeral hymn。 The only difficulty
would be in keeping aunt Becky Burnham from pitching it
in a key where nobody but a soprano skylark； accustomed to
warble at a great height； could possibly sing it。
It was generally given at the grave； when Elder Weeks officiated；
but it never satisfied aunt Hitty； because the good elder always
looked so unpicturesque when he threw a red bandanna handkerchief
over his head before beginning the twenty…seven verses。
After the long prayer； she would have Almira Berry give
for a solo
This gro…o…oanin' world 's too dark and
dre…e…ar for the saints' e … ter … nal rest；
This hymn； if it did not wholly reconcile one to death；
enabled one to look upon life with sufficient solemnity。
It was a thousand pities； she thought； that the old hearse was
so shabby and rickety； and that Gooly Eldridge； who drove it；
would insist on wearing a faded peach…blow overcoat。
It was exasperating to think of the public spirit at Egypt；
and contrast it with the state of things at Pleasant River。
In Egypt they had sold the old hearse house for a sausage shop；
and now they were having hearse sociables every month
to raise money for a new one。
All these details flew through aunt Hitty's mind in
fascinating procession。 There shouldn't be 〃a hitch〃 anywhere。
There had been a hitch at her last funeral； but she had been
only an assistant there。 Matt Henderson had been struck
by lightning at the foot of Squire Bean's old nooning tree；
and certain circumstances combined to make the funeral one
of unusual interest； so much so that fat old Mrs。 Potter
from Deerwander created a sensation at the cemetery。
She was so anxious to get where she could see everything
to the best advantage that she crowded too near the bier；
stepped on the sliding earth； and pitched into the grave。
As she weighed over two hundred pounds； and was in a position
of some disadvantage； it took five men to extricate her from
the dilemma； and the operation made a long and somewhat
awkward break in the religious services。 Aunt Hitty always
said of this catastrophe； 〃If I'd 'a' ben Mis' Potter； I'd 'a'
ben so mortified I believe I'd 'a' said； 'I wa'n't plannin'
to be buried； but now I'm in here I declare I'll stop！'〃
Old Mrs。 Butterfield's funeral was not only voted
an entire success by the villagers； but the seal of professional
approval was set upon it by an undertaker from Saco；
who declared that Mrs。 Tarbox could make a handsome living
in the funeral line anywhere。 Providence； who always assists
those who assist themselves； decreed that the niece Lyddy Ann
should not arrive until the aunt was safely buried； so； there being
none to resist her right or grudge her the privilege aunt Hitty；
for the first time in her life； rode in the next buggy to
the hearse。 Si； in his best suit； a broad weed and weepers；
drove Cyse Higgins's black colt； and aunt Hitty was dressed in
deep mourning； with the Widow Buzzell's crape veil over her face；
and in her hand a palmleaf fan tied with a black ribbon。
Her comment to Si； as she went to her virtuous couch that night； was：
〃It was an awful dry funeral； but that was the only flaw in it。
It would 'a' ben perfect if there' ben anybody to shed tears。
I come pretty nigh it myself； though I ain't no relation；
when Elder Weeks said； 'You'll go round the house； my sisters；
and Mis' Butterfield won't be there； you'll go int' the orchard；
and Mis' Butterfield won't be there； you'll go int'
the barn and Mis' Butterfield won't be there； you'll go int'
the shed； and Mis' Butterfield won't be there； you'll go int'
the hencoop； and Mis' Butterfield won't be there！'
That would 'a' drawed tears from a stone most； 'specially sence Mis'
Butterfield set such store by her hens。〃
And this is the way that Lyddy Butterfield came into
her kingdom； a little lone brown house on the river's brim。
She had seen it only once before when she had driven out from Portland；
years ago； with her aunt。 Mrs。 Butterfield lived in Portland；
but spent her summers in Edgewood on account of her chickens。
She always explained that the country was dreadful dull for her；
but good for the hens； they always laid so much better in
the winter time。
Lyddy liked the place all the better for its loneliness。
She had never had enough of solitude； and this quiet home；
with the song of the river for company； if one needed more
company than chickens and a cat； satisfied all her desires；
particularly as it was accompanied by a snug little income
of two hundred dollars a year； a meagre sum that seemed to open
up mysterious avenues of joy to her starved； impatient heart。
When she was a mere infant； her brother was holding
her on his knee before the great old…fashioned fireplace
heaped with burning logs。 A sudden noise startled him；
and the crowing； restless baby gave an unexpected lurch； and slipped；
face downward； into the glowing embers。 It was a full minute
before the horror…stricken boy could extricate the little creature
from the cruel flame that had already done its fatal work。
The baby escaped with her life； but was disfigured forever。
As she grew older； the gentle hand of time could not entirely
efface the terrible scars。 One cheek was wrinkled and crimson；
while one eye and the mouth were drawn down pathetically。
The accident might have changed the disposition of any child；
but Lyddy chanced to be a sensitive； introspective bit of feminine
humanity； in whose memory the burning flame was never quenched。
Her mother； partly to conceal her own wounded vanity； and partly
to shield the timid； morbid child； kept her out of sight as much
as possible； so that at sixteen； when she was left an orphan；
she had lived almost entirely in solitude。
She became； in course of time； a kind of general nursery
governess in a large family of motherless children。
The father was almost always away from home； his sister kept the house；
and Lyddy stayed in the nursery； bathing the brood and putting
them to bed； dressing them in the morning； and playing with them
in the safe privacy of the back garden or the open attic。
They loved her； disfigured as she was； for the child despises
mere externals； and explores the heart of things to see whether it
be good or evil；but they could never induce her to see strangers；
nor to join any gathering of people。
The children were grown and married now； and Lyddy was nearly
forty when she came into possession of house and lands and fortune；
forty； with twenty years of unexpended feeling pent within her。
Forty； that is rather old to be interesting； but age is a relative matter。
Haven't you seen girls of four…and…twenty who have nibbled and been
nibbled at ever since they were sixteen； but who have neither caught
anything nor been caught？ They are old； if you like； but Lyddy was
forty and still young； with her susceptibilities cherished； not dulled；
and with all the 〃language of passion fresh and rooted as the lovely
leafage about a spring。〃
IV。
〃He shall daily joy dispense
Hid in song's sweet influence。〃
Emerson's _Merlin。_
Lyddy had very few callers during her first month
as a property owner in Edgewood。 Her appearance would
have been against her winning friends easily in any case；
even if she had not acquired the habits of a recluse。
It took a certain amount of time； too； for the community
to get used to the fact that old Mrs。 Butterfield was dead；
and her niece Lyddy Ann living in the cottage on the river road。
There were numbers of people who had not yet heard that old
Mrs。 Butterfield had bought the house from the Thatcher boys；
and that was fifteen years ago； but this was not strange； for；
notwithstanding aunt Hitty's valuable services in disseminating
general information； there was a man living on the Bonny Eagle
road who was surprised to hear that Daniel Webster was dead；
an