“‘You can make it or go without, jest as you please,’ says I.

“‘Ain’t Aunt Abby goin’ to get up?’ says she.

“‘I guess she won’t get up,’ says I, ‘sick as she is.’  I was gettin’ madder and madder.  There was somethin’ about that little pink-and-white thing standin’ there and talkin’ about coffee, when she had killed so many better folks than she was, and had jest killed another, that made me feel ’most as if I wished somebody would up and kill her before she had a chance to do any more harm.

“‘Is Aunt Abby sick?’ says Luella, as if she was sort of aggrieved and injured.

“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘she’s sick, and she’s goin’ to die, and then you’ll be left alone, and you’ll have to do for yourself and wait on yourself, or do without things.’  I don’t know but I was sort of hard, but it was the truth, and if I was any harder than Luella Miller had been I’ll give up.  I ain’t never been sorry that I said it.  Well, Luella, she up and had hysterics again at that, and I jest let her have ’em.  All I did was to bundle her into the room on the other side of the entry where Aunt Abby couldn’t hear her, if she wa’n’t past it—­I don’t know but she was—­and set her down hard in a chair and told her not to come back into the other room, and she minded.  She had her hysterics in there till she got tired.  When she found out that nobody was comin’ to coddle her and do for her she stopped.  At least I suppose she did.  I had all I could do with poor Aunt Abby tryin’ to keep the breath of life in her.  The doctor had told me that she was dreadful low, and give me some very strong medicine to give to her in drops real often, and told me real particular about the nourishment.  Well, I did as he told me real faithful till she wa’n’t able to swaller any longer.  Then I had her daughter sent for.  I had begun to realize that she wouldn’t last any time at all.  I hadn’t realized it before, though I spoke to Luella the way I did.  The doctor he came, and Mrs. Sam Abbot, but when she got there it was too late; her mother was dead.  Aunt Abby’s daughter just give one look at her mother layin’ there, then she turned sort of sharp and sudden and looked at me.

“‘Where is she?’ says she, and I knew she meant Luella.

“‘She’s out in the kitchen,’ says I.  ’She’s too nervous to see folks die.  She’s afraid it will make her sick.’

“The Doctor he speaks up then.  He was a young man.  Old Doctor Park had died the year before, and this was a young fellow just out of college.  ‘Mrs. Miller is not strong,’ says he, kind of severe, ‘and she is quite right in not agitating herself.’