Silas White was little and wiry and fussy. He monopolized the greater
part of the business, although he was not half as well fitted for it
as his companion.
They pried into everything with religious exactitude. Mrs. Polly
watched them with beseeming awe and deference, but it was a great
trial to her, and she grew very nervous over it. It seemed dreadful to
have all her husband's little personal effects, down to his neckband
and mittens, handled over, and their worth in shillings and pence
calculated. She had a price fixed on them already in higher currency.
Ann found her crying one afternoon sitting on the kitchen settle, with
her apron over her head. When she saw the little girl's pitying look,
she poured out her trouble to her.
"They've just been valuing his mittens and gloves," said she, sobbing,
"at two-and-sixpence. I shall be thankful when they are through."
"Are there any more of his things?" asked Ann, her black eyes
flashing, with the tears in them.
"I think they've seen about all. There's his blue jacket he used to
milk in, a-hanging behind the shed door--I guess they haven't valued
that yet."
"I think it's a shame!" quoth Ann. "I don't believe there's any need
of so much law."
"Hush, child! You mustn't set yourself up against the judgment of your
elders. Such things have to be done.
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