Then the little woman made her speech.  All the way from her distant village, in the rear gloom of the covered wagon, she had been composing it.  She delivered it with an assumption of calm dignity, in spite of her angry red cheeks and her shaking voice.  “Cousin Ann,” said the little woman, “me and mine go nowhere where we are not invited.  We came to the funeral—­though you didn’t see fit to even tell us when it was, and we only heard of it by accident from the butcher—­out of respect to poor Abel.  He was my own second-cousin, and our folks used to visit back and forth a good deal before he was married.  I felt as if I must come to his funeral, whether I was wanted or not, because I know if he’d been alive he’d said to come; but staying to supper is another thing.  I am sorry for you, Cousin Ann; we are all sorry for you in your affliction.  We all hope it may be sanctified to you; but I don’t feel, and ’Lisha and the girls don’t feel, as if we could stay and eat victuals in a house where we’ve been shown very plainly we ain’t wanted.”

Then Ann spoke, and her voice was unexpectedly loud.  “You haven’t any call to think you wasn’t all welcome,” said she.  “You live ten miles off, and I hadn’t a soul to send but Jerome, with a horse that can’t get out of a walk.  I didn’t know myself there’d be a funeral for certain till yesterday.  There wasn’t time to send for you.  I thought of it, but I knew there wouldn’t be time to get word to you in season for you to start.  You might, as long as you’re a professing Christian, Eloise Green, have a little mercy in a time like this.”  Ann’s voice quavered a little, but she set her mouth harder.

The large man nudged his wife and whispered something.  He drew the back of his rough hand across his eyes.  The three little blue-clad girls stood toeing in, dangling their cotton-gloved hands.

“I thought you might have sent word by the butcher,” said the little woman.  Her manner was softer, but she wanted to cover her defeat well.

“I couldn’t think of butchers and all the wherewithals,” said Ann, with stern dignity.  “I didn’t think Abel’s relations would lay it up against me if I didn’t.”

The large man’s face worked; tears rolled down his great cheeks.  He pulled out a red handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

“You’d ought to had a white handkerchief, father,” whispered the little woman; then she turned to Ann.  “I’m sure I don’t want to lay up anything,” said she.

“I don’t think you have any call to,” responded Ann.  “I haven’t anything more to say.  If you feel like staying to supper I shall be glad to have you, but I don’t feel as if I had strength to urge anybody.”