MRS. MCINTOSH.—You haven’t been invited to be one of poor Rhodora Boyd’s pall–bearers, have you? That would be _too_ absurd. They say she’s asked a regular party of her old conquests. Mr. Libriver just passed here and told me—Mr. Lister and John Lang and Dexter Townsend— MR. JANS.—Yes, and me. MRS. MCINTOSH.—Oh, _Mr._ Jans! And they do say—at least Mr. Libriver says—that she hasn’t asked a man who hadn’t proposed to her. MR. JANS (_Dutchily_).—I d’no. But I’m asked, and— MRS. MCINTOSH.—You don’t mean to tell me that Mr. Smith is asked, too? Oh, that would be _too_ impossible. You don’t mean to tell me, Mr. Smith, that you furnished one of Rhodora’s scalps ten years ago? MR. SMITH.—You ought to know, Mrs. McIntosh. Or—no—perhaps not. You and Mac were to windward of the centre–board on Townsend’s boat when _I_ got the mitten. I suppose you couldn’t hear us. But we were to leeward, and Miss Pennington said she hoped _all_ proposals didn’t echo. MRS. MCINTOSH.—The wretched c—— but she’s dead. Well, I’m thankful Mac—Mr. McIntosh never _could_ abide that girl. He always said she was horribly bad form—poor thing, I oughtn’t to speak so, I suppose. She’s been punished enough. MR. SMITH.—I’m glad you think so, Mrs. McIntosh. I hope you won’t feel it necessary to advise Mac to refuse her last dying request. [Illustration] MRS. MCINTOSH.—What— MR. SMITH.—Oh, well, the fact is, Mrs. McIntosh, we only stopped in to say that as McIntosh and all the rest of us are asked to be pall–bearers at Mrs. Boyd’s funeral, you might ask Mac if it wouldn’t be just as well to postpone the fishing party for a week or so. If you remember—will you be so kind? Thank you, good afternoon. MR. JANS.—Good afternoon, Mrs. McIntosh. * * * * * SCENE.—_The Linen Closet, at the end of a sunny corridor in_ MR. ALEXANDER SLOAN’S _house._ MRS. SLOAN _inspecting her sheets and pillow–cases. To her, enter_ BRIDGET, _her housemaid, with a basket full of linen, the Trega Evening Eagle on the top, folded._ MRS. SLOAN.—Why, that surely isn’t one of the new napkins!—oh, it’s the evening paper. Dear me! how near–sighted I am getting! (_Takes it and opens it._) You may put those linen sheets on the top shelf, Bridget. We’ll hardly need them again this Fall. Oh, Bridget—here’s poor Mrs. Boyd’s obituary. You used to live at Colonel Pennington’s before she was married, didn’t you? BRIDGET.—I did that, Mum. MRS. SLOAN (_reading_).—“Mrs. Boyd’s pall–bearers are fitly chosen from the most distinguished and prominent citizens of Trega.” I’m sure I don’t see why they should be. (_Reads._) “Those invited to render the last honors to the deceased are Mr. George Lister—“ BRIDGET.—’Tis he was foriver at the house. [Illustration] MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr. John Lang—“ BRIDGET.—And him. MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr Dexter Townsend—“ BRIDGET.—And him, too. MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr. McIntosh, Mr. William Jans, Mr. Milo Smith—“