surprise, and my regret that everyone in town could not see this beautiful parlor. Then Aunt Mary confided to me that sometime she was going to have a party and invite all her friends. Then she began looking doubtfully at the streaks of sunlight in the room, and casting her eyes around the ceiling and the walls to see if perchance a stray fly might have come through the door; and then she went to the window and pushed back the long stiff lace curtains, and closed the blinds, leaving us once more in the dark. Of course I never could forget that parlor, though Aunt Mary did not take me there again. Sometime afterwards, when I went for butter, I missed her at the high oven where she always stood with the dish-cloth in her hand. When I knocked, Uncle Ezra let me in. The big rocker had been drawn out into the kitchen, near the stove; and Aunt Mary, looking very white, sat in the chair propped up with pillows. I asked her if she was sick, and she answered no, but that she had been “feeling poorly” for some time past. Of course I must have heard all about her illness at the time, but this has faded from my mind. I remember only that Uncle Ezra came to the house one day, looking very sad, and when he spoke he simply said, “The old woman is dead.” We children were all taken to the funeral. I shall always remember this event, for when we went through the little gate there stood the front door wide open, and we went in through the hall. Aunt Mary was lying peacefully in her coffin in the front parlor. All the chairs in the house had been brought in. Uncle Ezra sat with downcast head near the spare bedroom door, a few neighbors and relatives were seated in chairs around the room, and overhead, on the white ceiling, the flies were buzzing and swarming as if in glee. The old preacher was there, and I remember that in his sermon he referred to Aunt Mary’s “neatness”; and here I know that Uncle Ezra groaned. The day was rainy, and the neighbors had tracked mud on the nice Brussels carpet. I looked around the room that Aunt Mary had shown me with such pride and care. The muddy shoes of the neighbors who had gathered about the coffin were making great spots on the floor; the ceiling was growing blacker each minute with the gathering flies. A great bluebottle, larger than the rest, was buzzing on the glass above Aunt Mary’s head, trying to get inside the lid. The windows were wide open, the curtains drawn aside, and the blinds thrown back. Slowly I looked at the muddy floor, the swarming flies, and the people gathered in Aunt Mary’s parlor; and then I thought of the party that she had told me she was going to give. CHAPTER XX FERMAN HENRY