face a light as if from heaven was beaming, had to assume the
care of him, in addition to that of her dying child. He was another
helpless burden on her hands.

There came a day when the house was filled with white flowers, and
people came and went, and holy words were spoken; and the fairest
flower of all was carried out, to return to the house no more.

"That woman is a most unnatural and peculiar woman!" said Mrs.
Follingsbee, who had been most active and patronizing in sending
flowers, and attending to the scenic arrangements of the funeral. "It
is just what I always said: she is a perfect statue; she's no kind of
feeling. There was Charlie, poor fellow! so sick that he had to go to
bed, perfectly overcome, and have somebody to sit up with him; and
there was that woman never shed a tear,--went round attending to every
thing, just like a piece of clock-work. Well, I suppose people are
happier for being made so; people that have no sensibility are better
fitted to get through the world. But, gracious me! I can't understand
such people. There she stood at the grave, looking so calm, when
Charlie was sobbing so that he could hardly hold himself up. Well, it
really wasn't respectable. I think, at least, I would keep my veil
down, and keep my handkerchief up. Poor Charlie! he came to me at
last; and I gave way. I was completely broken down, I must confess.
Poor fellow! he told me there was no conceiving his misery. That baby
was the very idol of his soul; all his hopes of life were centred in
it. He really felt tempted to rebel at Providence. He said that he
really could not talk with his wife on the subject. He could not enter
into her submission at all; it seemed to him like a want of feeling.
He said of course it wasn't her fault that she was made one way and he
another."

In fact, Mr. Charlie Ferrola took to the pink satin boudoir with a
more languishing persistency than ever, requiring to be stayed with
flagons, and comforted with apples, and receiving sentimental calls of
condolence from fair admirers, made aware of the intense poignancy of
his grief. A lovely poem, called "My Withered Blossom," which appeared
in a fashionable magazine shortly after, was the out-come of this
experience, and increased the fashionable sympathy to the highest
degree.

Honest Mrs. Van Astrachan, however, though not acquainted with Mrs.
Ferrola, went to the funeral with Rose; and the next day her carriage
was seen at Mrs. Ferrola's