e must leave her to the creatures Veronica had seen. I
looked upward, to discern the shadowy reflection behind the gray haze
of cloud, where she might have paused a moment on her eternal journey
to the eternal world of souls.

It was the custom, and father took his hat off to thank his friends
for their sympathy and attention. His lips moved, but no words were
audible.

The procession moved down the path again. Arthur's hand was in mine;
he stamped his feet firmly on the sand, as if to break the oppressive
silence which no one seemed disposed to disturb. The same ceremonies
were performed in starting us homeward, by the same person, who let
go the reins, and lifted his hat as we passed, as the final token of
attention and respect.

The windows were open; a wind was blowing through the house, the
furniture was set in order, the doors were thrown back, but not a soul
was there when we went in. The duties of friendship and tradition had
been fulfilled; the neighbors had gone home to their avocations. For
the public, the tragedy was over; all speculation on the degree of
our grief, or our indifference, was settled. We could take off our
mourning garments and our mourning countenance, now that we were
alone; or we could give way to that anguish we are afraid and ashamed
to show, except before the One above human emotion.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Temperance stayed to the house-cleaning. It was lucky, she could not
help saying, as house-cleaning must always be after a funeral, that
it should have happened at the regular cleaning-time. She went back
to her own house as soon as it was over. Father drove to Milford as
usual; Arthur resumed his school, and Aunt Merce, who had at first
busied herself in looking over her wardrobe, and selecting from it
what she thought could be dyed, folded it away. She passed hours in
mother's room, from which father had fled, crying over her Bible,
looking in her boxes and drawers to feed her sorrow with the sight of
the familiar things, alternating those periods with her old occupation
of looking out of the windows. In regard to myself, and Veronica, she
evinced a distress at the responsibility which, she feared, must
rest upon her. Veronica, dark and silent, played such heart-piercing
strains that father could not bear to hear her; so when she played,
for he dared not ask her to desist, he went away. To me she had
scarcely spoken since the funeral. She wore the same dress each
day--one