“Granny?”

“Yes, I call her so, and it pleases her.  She has had a little table in the market for a long while, and I like to buy some of her goodies just to encourage her, for she has such a way of looking on the bright side that she wins my respect.  Listen, now, while I speak to her.”

Auntie’s old woman had on a hood and shawl, and was curled up in a little heap, half asleep.

“Pleasant day,” said Mrs. Allen, going up to the table.

“Yes, mum; nice weather underful,” returned the old woman, rousing herself, and rubbing an apple with her shawl.

“And how do you do, Granny?”

“Why, is that you?” said she, the sun coming out all over her face.  “And how’ve you been, mum, since the last time I’ve seen yer?”

“Very well, Granny; and how do things prosper with you?”

“O, I’m all right!  I’ve had a touch of rheumaty, and this is the fust I’ve stirred for two weeks.”

“Sorry to hear it, Granny.  Rheumatism can’t be very comfortable.”

“Well, no; it’s bahd for the jints,” said the old woman, holding up her fingers, which were as shapeless as knobby potatoes.

“Poor Granny!  How hard that is!”

“Well, they be hard, and kind o’ stiff-like.  But bless ye,” laughed she, “that’s nothing.  I wouldn’t ‘a’ cared, only I’s afeared I’d lose this stand.  There was a gyurl come and kep’ it for me, what time she could spare.”

“I’m glad you havn’t lost the stand, Granny; but I don’t see how you can laugh at the rheumatism.”

“Well, mum, what’d be the use to cry?  Why, bless ye, there’s wus things’n that!  As long’s I hain’t got no husband, I don’t feel to complain!”

She shook her sides so heartily at this, that Fly laughed aloud.

“So you don’t approve of husbands, Granny?”

“No more I don’t, mum; they’re troublesome craychers, so fur as I’ve seen.”

“But don’t you get down-hearted, living all alone?”

“O, no, mum; I do suppose I’m the happiest woman in the city o’ New Yorruk.  When I goes to bed, I just gives up all my thrubbles to the Lord, and goes to sleep.”

“But when you are sick, Granny?”

“O, then, sometimes I feels bahd, not to be airnin’ nothin’, and gets some afeard o’ the poorhouse; but, bless ye, I can’t help thinking the Lord’ll keep me out.”

“I’m pretty sure He will,” said Aunt Madge, resolving on the spot that the good old soul never should go to a place she dreaded so much.  “Have you any butter-scotch to-day, Granny?”

“O, yes, mum; sights of it.  Help yourself.  I want to tell you something’ll please you,” said the old woman, bending forward, and speaking in a low tone, and with sparkling eyes.  “I’ve put some money in the bank, mum; enough to bury me! Ain’t that good!”

Prudy and Dotty were terribly shocked.  She must be crazy to talk about her own funeral.  As if she was glad of it, too?  But Horace thought it a capital joke.