"I don't like funerals."
"I do." Rachel bobbed her black head at him across the table, and her eyes
roved excitedly. "I've seen lots an' lots of 'em in the city. They're fine,
I tell you." She laid down her knife and fork again and waved her arms.
"Oh, a string of carriages as long--an' the corpse is sometimes in a white
box, and heaps of flowers. I like 'em next to the circus."
"There, there, Rachel, eat your dinner, child," broke in Mrs. Henderson
quickly. "And, boys, don't talk any more. You must get through dinner, for
I have to go to Miss Bedlow's by two o'clock," and she got out of her chair
and began to clear the table.
So all that was to be heard now in the parsonage kitchen was the pleasant
rattle of knives and forks, and the bustle of clearing up, and presently
the children hopped out of their chairs and began to help Mrs. Henderson to
set everything in order.
"I'm goin' to wash every single thing up," announced Rachel, hurrying for
the mop.
"Can you, dear?" asked the parson's wife. She was very tired, and yet had
the funeral of the old parishioner to attend. But the risk seemed great of
allowing the new little girl to do up all the dinner dishes. "There are a
great many of them, and some of them are big"--glancing doubtfully around
the piles. "Are you sure you can manage them?"
"Why, yes," declared Rachel in scorn, "I can do 'em all just as easy!" She
stopped to snap her fingers at the greasy plates, then ran over to get the
big teakettle on the stove in a twinkling.
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