The Solitary Summer

"What utter waste!" I ejaculated. "Waste?" "Yes--utter waste and foolishness. Foolishness, not to have bought a few little comforts, waste of the money, and waste of the clothes. Is there any meaning, sense, or use whatever in burying a good black silk dress?" "It would be a scandal not to be buried decently," she replied, manifestly surprised at my warmth, "and the neighbours respect her much more now that they know what nice clothes she had bought for her funeral. Nothing is wanting. I even found a box with a gold brooch in it, and a bracelet." "I suppose, then, as many of her belongings as will go into the coffin will be buried too, in order to still further impress the neighbours?" I asked--"her feather bed, for instance, and anything else of use and value?" "No, only what she has on, and the brushes and combs and towels that were used in dressing her." "How ugly and how useless!" I said with a shiver of disgust. "It is the custom," was her tranquil reply. Suddenly an unpleasant thought struck me, and I burst out emphatically, "Nothing but a shroud is to be put on me." "Oh no," she said, looking up at me with a face meant to be full of the most reassuring promises of devotion, "the gracious lady may be quite certain that if I am still here she will have on her most beautiful ball dress and finest linen, and that the whole neighbourhood shall see for themselves how well Herrschaften know what is due to them."