She then tapped smartly on
Mrs. Butterfield's bedroom window with her thimble finger. This
proving of no avail, she was obliged to pry open the kitchen shutter,
split open the screen of mosquito netting with her shears, and crawl
into the house over the sink. This was a considerable feat for a
somewhat rheumatic elderly lady, but this one never grudged trouble
when she wanted to find out anything.
When she discovered that her premonitions were correct, and old Mrs.
Butterfield was indeed dead, her grief at losing a pleasant
acquaintance was largely mitigated by her sense of importance at
being first on the spot, and chosen by Providence to take command of
the situation. There were no relations in the village; there was no
woman neighbour within a mile: it was therefore her obvious
Christian duty not only to take charge of the "remains," but to
conduct such a funeral as the remains would have wished for herself.
The fortunate Vice-President suddenly called upon by destiny to guide
the ship of state, the soldier who sees a possible Victoria Cross in
a hazardous engagement, can have a faint conception of Aunt Hitty's
feeling on this momentous occasion. Funerals were the very breath of
her life. There was no ceremony, either of public or private import,
that, to her mind, approached a funeral in real satisfying interest.
Yet, with distinct talent in this direction, she had always been
"cabined, cribbed, confined" within hopeless limitations.
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