turally so,--from the attention of Miss Prime. Clean muslin
curtains had been put up at the windows, and the one cracked mirror
which the house possessed had been covered with white cloth. The
lace-like carpet had been taken off the floor, and the boards had been
scrubbed white. The little stove in the corner, now cold, was no longer
red with rust. In a tumbler on a little table at Margaret's head stood
the only floral offering that gave a touch of tenderness to the grim
scene,--a bunch of home-grown scarlet and white geraniums. Some woman
had robbed her wintered room of this bit of brightness for the memory of
the dead. The perfume of the flowers mingled heavily with the faint
odour which pervades the chamber of death,--an odour that is like the
reminiscence of sorrow.

Like a spirit of order, with solemn face and quiet tread, Miss Hester
moved about the room, placing one thing here, another there, but ever
doing or changing something, all with maidenly neatness. What a
childish fancy this is of humanity's, tiptoeing and whispering in the
presence of death, as if one by an incautious word or a hasty step might
wake the sleeper from such deep repose!

The service had been set for two o'clock in the afternoon. One or two
women had already come in to "sit," but by half-past one the general
congregation began to arrive and to take their places. They were mostly
women. The hour of the day was partially responsible for this; but then
men do not go to funerals anyway, if they can help it. They do not
revel, like their sisters, in the exquisite pleasure of sorrow. Most of
the women had known pain and loss themselves, and came with ready
sympathy, willing, nay, anxious to be moved to tears. Some of them came
dragging by one hand children, dressed stiffly, uncomfortably, and
ludicrously,--a medley of soiled ribbons, big collars, wide bows, and
very short knickerbockers. The youngsters were mostly curious and
ill-mannered, and ever and anon one had to be slapped by its mother into
snivelling decorum. Mrs. Davis came in with one of her own children and
leading the dead woman's boy by the hand. At this a buzz of whispered
conversation began.

"Pore little dear," said one, as she settled the bow more securely
under her own boy's sailor collar,--"pore little dear, he 's all alone
in the world."

"I never did see in all my life sich a young child look so sad," said
another.

"H'm!" put in a third; "in this world pore motherless