There was something about the large,
roseate face worn in firm lines of humour and decision which
reassured her.
"I have no objection, Mrs. Simmons," said she, "if--"
"If what?" asked the widow.
"If you have common sense enough not to keep fussing because the
room happens to be the one my aunt died in," said Sophia bluntly.
"Fiddlesticks!" said the widow, Mrs. Elvira Simmons.
That very afternoon she moved into the southwest chamber. The
young girl Flora assisted her, though much against her will.
"Now I want you to carry Mrs. Simmons' dresses into the closet in
that room and hang them up nicely, and see that she has everything
she wants," said Sophia Gill. "And you can change the bed and put
on fresh sheets. What are you looking at me that way for?"
"Oh, Aunt Sophia, can't I do something else?"
"What do you want to do something else for?"
"I am afraid."
"Afraid of what? I should think you'd hang your head. No; you go
right in there and do what I tell you."
Pretty soon Flora came running into the sitting-room where Sophia
was, as pale as death, and in her hand she held a queer, old-
fashioned frilled nightcap.
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