"Mr. and Mrs. Warden are my guests. They are going to drive to Bunker
Hill with me by and by."
When the six o'clock accommodation train pulled out from Boston that
night it bore a little old man and a little old woman, gray-haired,
weary, but blissfully content.
"We've seen 'em all, Hezekiah, ev'ry single one of 'em," Abigail was
saying. "An' wan't Mr. Livingstone good, a-gittin' that carriage an'
takin' us ev'rywhere; an' it bein' open so all 'round the sides, we
didn't miss seein' a single thing!"
"He was, Abby, he was, an' he wouldn't let me pay one cent!" cried
Hezekiah, taking out his roll of bills and patting it lovingly. "But,
Abby, did ye notice? 'Twas kind o' queer we never got one taste of that
pink lemonade. The waiter-man took it away."
When Aunt Abby Waked Up
The room was very still. The gaunt figure on the bed lay motionless save
for a slight lifting of the chest at long intervals. The face was turned
toward the wall, leaving a trail of thin gray hair-wisps across the
pillow. Just outside the door two physicians talked together in low
tones, with an occasional troubled glance toward the silent figure on
the bed.
"If there could be something that would rouse her," murmured one;
"something that would prick her will-power and goad it into action! But
this lethargy--this wholesale giving up!" he finished with a gesture of
despair.
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