His tone was eager and pitiful. "Why Ann Eliza Dix," he
said. "How do you do? You are not going to pass without speaking to
me?"
"My name is Dix, but not Ann Eliza," said Ellen politely; "my name is
Ellen."
"You are Cephas Dix's sister, Ann Eliza," insisted the old man. His
eyes looked suddenly tearful. "I know I am right," he said. "You are
Ann Eliza Dix."
The girl felt a sudden pity. Her Aunt Ann Eliza Dix had been lying in
her grave for ten years, but she could not contradict the poor man.
"Of course," she said. "How do you do?"
The old man's face lit up. "I knew I was right," he said. "I forget,
you see, sometimes, but this time I was sure. How are you, Ann
Eliza?"
"Very well, thank you."
"How is Cephas?"
"He is well, too."
"And your father?"
Ellen shivered a little. It was rather bewildering. This strange old
man must mean her grandfather, who had died before her Aunt Ann
Eliza. She replied faintly that he was well, and hoped, with a qualm
of ghastly mirth, that she was speaking the truth. Ellen's
grandfather had not been exactly a godly man, and the family seldom
mentioned him.
"He means well, Ann Eliza, if sometimes you don't exactly like the
way he does," said the living old man, excusing the dead one for the
faults of his life.
"I know he does," said Ellen. The desire to laugh grew upon her.
She was relieved when the stranger changed the subject. She felt that
she would become hysterical if this forcible resurrection of her dead
relatives continued.
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