Free The Riddle of Penncroft Farm by Dorothea Jensen

else that long, long day.
    When Mom picked me up that afternoon, I asked nervously what the funeral would be like.
    â€œIts a memorial service, not a funeral,” she said, giving my hand a reassuring pat. “A time for friends to get together and remember Aunt Cass.”
    Recalling my first long talk with my great-aunt, I murmured, “Friends, Quakers, or friends,
amigos?
”
    â€œBoth,” Mom answered. We rode along in silence for a few miles. Then she cleared her throat. “Look, honey, try not to grieve for Aunt Cass too much. She wouldn’t have wanted you to. Just be glad you had the chance to get to know her and to bring her joy. And you did. Great joy.”
    I interlocked my fingers and squeezed my hands together so as not to cry. Soon we pulled into a parking lot and stopped in front of a simple stone house with a slate roof.
    â€œThis doesn’t look like a church,” I said. “It doesn’t have stained-glass windows or a steeple or anything.”
    â€œIt isn’t a church, silly. It’s a meetinghouse. Come on.”
    I hung back a little, worrying about what was going to happen. I shouldn’t have been. Inside were several rows of chairs in a large circle. A few people sat quietly with heads bowed. I recognized only one—Judge Bank’s.
    My mother guided me to a chair in the front row and sat down beside me. Dad came up and asked in a whisper if I was all right. He saw my nod and sat down on the other side of Mom.
    People started to filter in, greeting one another in hushed voices. Just before the time set for the service to begin, the Hargreaveses came in. My mother motioned them to join us and Pat sank into the chair next to me.
    We all sat in silence. My heart was thudding so loudly it seemed as if everyone would hear it in the quiet room. I wondered when the minister would come in and start the service.
    Suddenly Mr. Hargreaves stood up. “Let us be thankful for having Cass live among us for so long. She was a good friend,” he said, his deep voice ringing out in the meeting room.
    â€œIs Mr. Hargreaves the minister?” I asked Mom softly.
    â€œThere isn’t any minister. Everybody says what he feels. About Cass.”
    â€œOh.” I thought about this for a moment, then whispered again, nervously, “Am
I
supposed to say something, too?”
    â€œOnly if you want to.”
    Other people stood up and talked about Aunt Cass. But it seemed to me that the person they were talking about was very different from the mischievous old lady I had known for so short a time.
    Then Judge Bank rose to tell about his long friendship with Cass Hargreaves. I could hardly believe that this tall, solemn man was the same one who had worn a pig’s snout to please Aunt Cass. It was as if he were a different person altogether.
    A
different person altogether
, I thought. That was it. Each person here saw a slightly different side of Aunt Cass. Now we were joining all the pieces together, like a puzzle, into a kind of picture of Aunt Cass.
    When it seemed as if no one had anything else to say, my mother stood up. “Now Patience will sing ‘The Riddle Song,’” she said.
    I glanced around, wondering which of the old women was Patience.
    The voice that broke the silence came from the chair next to mine. It was Pat Hargreaves who sang the song—sang it in a high, clear voice with her eyes shut tight.
    Â 
I gave my love a cherry without a stone
.
I gave my love a chicken without a bone
.
I gave my love a ring without an end
.
I gave my love a baby with no crying
.
    Â 
    As she sang the other verses, I thought about what a riddle Aunt Cass had been. All along, she who had seemed so lighthearted, playing silly tricks on me, was also the serious woman everyone else had talked about. It didn’t surprise me that she had liked this song, with its words so full of tricks, its melody so simple and beautiful. It suited her.
    At the