“Mamma always said she wanted to be buried simply. She thought it was sweet and beautiful to have services, but not essential. She was always skimping and saving for me, Mrs. Pennycook. She said I wasn't to wear mourning; that the--living needed more prayers than--the--dead. She--she said that when she was gone God would be good to her and that--I--she said I would need all the money we had.” “A-a-h-h-h!” breathed Mrs. Pennycook. She understood now. What a baggage the girl was! How heartless, begrudging her poor dead mother the poor comfort of a Christian burial, because she wanted the money for herself! Privately Mrs. Pennycook prophesied a bad ending for Donnie Corblay. She winked knowingly at her husband, then with truly feminine sarcasm: “Well, at _least,_ Donna, you'll _have_ to buy a coffin an' a _grave_ an' have the grave _dug_--” “Sam Singer will attend to that. I'm going to bury mamma among the flowers at the end of our garden. I'll have a nice plain coffin made in San Pasqual--” “Oh!” Mrs. Pennycook trembled. “Mamma always said,” Donna continued, “that undertakers preyed on the dead and traded in human grief, and for me not to engage one for her funeral. I'm going to do just what she told me to do, Mrs. Pennycook.” “Quite right, Donnie, quite right” interjected Mr. Pennycook. He was an impulsive creature and even under the hypnotic eye of Mrs. P. he sometimes broke out of bounds. “Daniel! Come!” _Daniel!_ At the mention of his Christian name Mr. Pennycook quivered. He knew he was in for it now, but he didn't care. It occurred to him that he might as well, to quote a homely proverb, “be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.” He had visited the Hat Ranch to tender aid and sympathy, and despite the impending visitation of his wife's wrath he resolved to be reckless for once and deliver the goods in bulk. “Your poor mother was a sensible woman, Donnie girl,” he told the orphan, “an' you're a dutiful daughter to follow out her last wishes under these--er--deplorable circumstances--er--er--I mean it's a terrible hard thing to lose your mother, Donnie, an'--damme, Donnie, I'm sorry. 'Pon my word, I'm sorry.” Mrs. Pennycook's lips moved, and while no sound issued therefrom, yet did Dan Pennycook, out of his many years of marital submission, comprehend the unspoken sentence: “_Dan Pennycook, you're a fool!_” “Ya-a-h” growled Mr. Pennycook, thoroughly aroused now and striving to appear belligerent. His wife silenced him with a look; then turned to Donna. She had a duty to perform. She was a great woman for “principle” and the performance of what she conceived to be her duty. She was a well-meaning but misguided person ordinarily, who loved a fight with her own family on the broad general ground that it denoted firmness of character. Mrs. Pennycook was so long on virtue and character herself that half her life was spent disposing of a portion of these attributes to the less fortunate members of her household.