"I'm too late for Robert's funeral, I hear," he said, in a moment, as
gruff and short as though she were to blame for the fact, and he was
come to deliver a verbal chastisement.

"Yes, sir, a few hours."

"Humph! His death was very sudden."

"Very sudden indeed."

"Humph!"

Very plainly, Mr. Congreve did not know exactly what to say next. He
hadn't expected this kind of a widow; his mind had pictured one in
bushels of crape, with a drenched, woe-begone face, who would scream
when she saw him, fall on his neck, in lieu of his purse, and gasp out
dramatically: "Dear, dear Uncle Ridley, now all my troubles are over,"
after which, he would have to pet her into quietude, when there was
nothing, next to walking out of the window in his sleep, that he dreaded
more than a crying woman; then he would have to kiss all the children,
and so greatly did he object to such an osculatory performance, that
after the act he looked as though he had made way with a quart of alum.
Now, there was the pleasing, but slightly astonishing fact, that nobody
was going to want to kiss him, and this pale, sweet-faced woman, with
her quiet eyes and determined mouth was Robert's widow, that he would
have to talk to; and it was very evident, that if he had anything to
say, she was waiting quietly to hear it.

"You have quite a large family,--madam," he said, hurriedly rushing in
to break a pause.

"Yes, sir, six daughters."

"Six! Bless my soul,--six girls," and Mr. Congreve hastily took some
snuff to settle his nerves. "Astonishing, I declare. Pity they're not
boys,--great pity."

"I would not have it otherwise than it is, sir."

"Humph! well, they're your burden, not mine," said the old man, testily,
and twisting uneasily in his chair.

"A burden I am happy and grateful to bear, if burden it be," answered
the widow, calmly. "I am thankful they are all mine, my comforts and
helps at all times."

"One of them is lame, is she?" and as he spoke, the old man's voice
softened, as it had done when he called to Jean.

"Yes, sir, my little one, lame from babyhood."

Mr. Congreve resorted to his handkerchief again, and waved its scarlet
folds back and forth in much agitation for a few seconds, then, as he
put it back in its capacious pocket, and sniffed once or twice, as if in
defiance to some internal commotion, Mrs. Dering remembered that he had
once had a little lame girl, who died before reaching womanhood.

He was regarding her inte