"You bet I will!" said Susan, with a tear-suffused cheek. "Well, as for me," said the practical Betsy, "I ain't on the Strew, much, but I shall ride at the head of the funeral procession!" "Not if I've been introduced to myself, you won't," said the golden-haired Nelly; "that's my position. You bet your bonnet- strings it is." "Children," said Reginald's mother, "you must do some crying, you know, on the day of the funeral; and how many pocket-handkerchers will it take to go round? Betsy, you and Nelly ought to make one do between you." "I'll tear her eyes out if she perpetrates a sob on my handkercher!" said Nelly. "Dear daughters in-law," said Reginald's mother, "how unseemly is this anger! Mules is five hundred dollars a span, and every identical mule my poor boy had has been gobbled up by the red man. I knew when my Reginald staggered into the door-yard that he was on the Die, but if I'd only thunk to ask him about them mules ere his gentle spirit took flight, it would have been four thousand dollars in OUR pockets, and NO mistake! Excuse those real tears, but you've never felt a parent's feelin's." "It's an oversight," sobbed Maria. "Don't blame us!" CHAPTER III.--DUST TO DUST. The funeral passed off in a very pleasant manner, nothing occuring to mar the harmony of the occasion. By a happy thought of Reginald's mother, the wives walked to the grave twenty abreast, which rendered that part of the ceremony thoroughly impartial. . . . . That night the twenty wives, with heavy hearts, sought their twenty respective couches. But no Reginald occupied those twenty respective couches--Reginald would never more linger all night in blissful repose in those twenty respective couches--Reginald's head would never more press the twenty respective pillows of those twenty respective couches--never, nevermore! . . . . In another house, not many leagues from the House of Mourning, a gray-haired woman was weeping passionately. "He died," she cried, "he died without sigerfyin', in any respect, where them mules went to!" CHAPTER IV.--MARRIED AGAIN. Two years are supposed to elapse between the third and fourth chapters of this original American romance. A manly Mormon, one evening, as the sun was preparing to set among a select apartment of gold and crimson clouds in the western horizon--although for that matter the sun has a right to "set" where it wants to, and so, I may add has a hen--a manly Mormon, I say, tapped gently at the door of the mansion of the late Reginald Gloverson. The door was opened by Mrs. Sarah Gloverson. "Is this the house of the widow Gloverson!" the Mormon asked. "It is," said Susan. "And how many is there of she?" inquired the Mormon. "There is about twenty of her, including me," courteously returned the fair Susan. "Can I see her?" "You can."