After Fifteen Years

"Old Mrs. Tazewell has departed this life at last!" said Winston
Aylett, entering his own parlor one bleak November evening on his
return from the village post-office. "I met Al. Branch on the road
just now. For a wonder he was sober--in honor of the occasion, I
suppose. He and Gus. Tabb are to sit up with the corpse to-night."

"When did she die?" queried his wife, drawing her skirts aside, that
he might get nearer the fire.

"At twelve o'clock to-day. That is, she ceased the unprofitable
business of respiration at that hour. She died, virtually, five
years ago. She has been little better than a mummy for that period."

"Poor old lady!" said Mabel Dorrance, regretfully, from her corner
of the hearth. "Hers was a kind heart, while she could think and act
intelligently. One of my earliest recollections is of the dainties
with which she used to ply me when I visited Rosa. She was an
indulgent parent and mistress, yet I suppose few even of those most
nearly related to her will mourn her loss."

"It would be very foolish if they did!" Mr. Aylett picked up the
tongs to mend the fire. "And very unnatural did they not rejoice at
being rid of a burden. The old place has been going to destruction
all these years, and it could not be sold while she cumbered the
upper earth."