ine. Bombazine made her
flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had
never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren.

"She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have
her way."

"Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce,
coming into my room dressed for the funeral.

"No."

"The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I
could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready
soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages
already."

Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given
to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from
Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted.

"Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing.

"How could you have done this?"

"Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?"

"Yes, the idea."

But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face
serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those
which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely
pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures
below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape.

"Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was
wan and languid, but collected.

"I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house
be empty?"

"Yes."

"Good; I can walk through it once more."

"The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be
certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?"

"You think I can go through with it, then?"

"I have set your behavior down to your will."

"You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she
was against me."

She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart
bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said.

I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she
drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a
flacon of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain,
and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will
never lose temper with you again."

The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out
the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent
respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair,
beside father, who sat by the