The widower soon found out the fashion of sense that belonged to Milly
for, while still in his great grief, he began to talk of spending fifty
pounds of capital on Sarah's grave, and she heard him and advised against.
"As to that," she said, "I knew your dear wife better'n anybody on earth
but yourself, Jonas, and this I will say: if she thought you'd heaved up
fifty pounds' worth of marble stone on her, she wouldn't lie quiet for an
instant moment. You know that modesty was Sarah's passion, and she'd
rather have a pink daisy on her pit and a blackbird pulling a worm out of
the green grass than all the monuments in the stone-cutter's window."
He listened and she ran on:
"Her virtues be in our hearts, and it won't better it to print 'em in the
churchyard; and if I was you and wanted to make heaven a brighter place
for Sarah than it already is, I'd lift up a modest affair and put a bit of
money away to goody for your little ones."
"I dare say that's a very clever thought," admitted Jonas.
"Yes, it is, then," went on Milly. "She didn't help you to be a saver for
vain things like grave-stones that don't bring in no interest to nobody.
And if it was the measurement of your sorrow, I'd say nothing, but 'tis
well known remorse be at the foundation of half the fine monuments widow
men put up to their partners, and you don't need to tell nobody in
Thorpe-Michael what you thought of Sarah and how she was the light of your
house, for we well know it.
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