ards the graveyard, a common but pathetic
spectacle.

Mrs. Warren had remained behind to attend to the house. She watched the
short procession out of sight. "I guess Margar't did n't have no linen
worth havin'," she said to herself, "but I 'll jest look." And look she
did, but without success. In disappointment and disgust she went out and
took the streamer of dusty black and dingy white crape from the door
where it had fluttered, and, bringing it in, laid it on the empty
trestles, that the undertaker might find it when he came for them. She
took the cloth off the mirror, and then, with one searching look around
to see that she had missed nothing worth taking, she went out, closing
and locking the door behind her.

"I guess I 'm as much entitled to anything Mag had as any one else,"
said Mrs. Warren.

CHAPTER III

By common consent, and without the formality of publication or
proclamation, the women had agreed to meet on the day after the funeral
for the purpose of discussing what was best to be done with the boy
Fred. From the moment that Mrs. Davis had taken charge of him, he had
shown a love for her and confidence in her care that had thoroughly
touched that good woman's heart. She would have liked nothing better
than to keep him herself. But there were already five hungry little
Davises, and any avoidable addition to the family was out of the
question. To be sure, in the course of time there were two more added to
the number, but that was unavoidable, and is neither here nor there. The
good woman sat looking at the boy the night after his mother had been
laid away. He sat upon the floor among her own children, playing in the
happy forgetfulness of extreme youth. But to the mother's keen eye there
was still a vague sadness in his bearing. Involuntarily, the scene and
conditions were changed, and, instead of poor Margaret, she herself had
passed away and was lying out there in a new-made grave in bleak and
dreary Woodland. She thought how her own bairns would be as motherless
and forlorn as the child before her, and yet not quite, either, for they
had a father who loved them in his own quiet undemonstrative way. This
should have consoled her in the sorrows she had conjured up, but, like a
woman, she thought of the father helpless and lonely when she had gone,
with the children huddled cheerlessly about him, and a veil of tears
came between her and the youngsters on the floor. With a great rush of
tenderne