bbing. "Yes, that's the
prettiest, and if we put it all round her like a frame, the undertaker
couldn't be so cruel as to throw it away, even if she is a pauper,
because it will look so beautiful. From what the Sunday school lessons
say, she's only asleep now, and when she wakes up she'll be in heaven."

"THERE'S ANOTHER PLACE," said Emma Jane, in an orthodox and sepulchral
whisper, as she took her ever-present ball of crochet cotton from her
pocket and began to twine the whiteweed blossoms into a rope.

"Oh, well!" Rebecca replied with the easy theology that belonged to her
temperament. "They simply couldn't send her DOWN THERE with that little
weeny baby. Who'd take care of it? You know page six of the catechism
says the only companions of the wicked after death are their father the
devil and all the other evil angels; it wouldn't be any place to bring
up a baby."

"Whenever and wherever she wakes up, I hope she won't know that the big
baby is going to the poor farm. I wonder where he is?"

"Perhaps over to Mrs. Dennett's house. She didn't seem sorry a bit, did
she?"

"No, but I suppose she's tired sitting up and nursing a stranger. Mother
wasn't sorry when Gran'pa Perkins died; she couldn't be, for he was
cross all the time and had to be fed like a child. Why ARE you crying
again, Rebecca?"

"Oh, I don't know, I can't tell, Emma Jane! Only I don't want to die and
have no funeral or singing and nobody sorry for me! I just couldn't bear
it!"

"Neither could I," Emma Jane responded sympathetically; "but p'r'aps
if we're real good and die young before we have to be fed, they will
be sorry. I do wish you could write some poetry for her as you did for
Alice Robinson's canary bird, only still better, of course, like that
you read me out of your thought book."

"I could, easy enough," exclaimed Rebecca, somewhat consoled by the
idea that her rhyming faculty could be of any use in such an emergency.
"Though I don't know but it would be kind of bold to do it. I'm all
puzzled about how people get to heaven after they're buried. I can't
understand it a bit; but if the poetry is on her, what if that should
go, too? And how could I write anything good enough to be read out loud
in heaven?"

"A little piece of paper couldn't get to heaven; it just couldn't,"
asserted Emma Jane decisively. "It would be all blown to pieces and
dried up. And nobody knows that the angels can read writing, anyway."

"They must be as educate