"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker.

"Little Willie only died yesterday morning."

"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth.

"Hardly," said the other.

"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who made the allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, the chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to borrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were all hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to attend the funeral in."

"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did about the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group.

"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any one," replied the woman who had first spoken.

"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their works ye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being so dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a to-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and long black veils are truly enough called mourning--they are an excellent counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all the money that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, there would be less misery in the world by a great deal."

And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thus exercised the privilege of independent thought and free discussion, carriage after carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the whole pa.s.sed out of sight.

It was near the hour of twilight when the afflicted family returned, and after partaking of supper, sparingly, and in silence, the different members retired to their chambers, and at an early hour sought relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep.

On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke the oppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fifty dollars.

"What for, Sarah?" said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with an expression of grave inquiry.

"It's the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time is to be lost in getting mourning. At any rate, it will be as much as a bargain to get dresses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have to go out this morning and buy the goods."

Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and somewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wife steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his countenance--

"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little one," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word, and the moisture dimmed his eyes.

"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put on mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can you think of such a thing?"

"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldest daughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I were to neglect so binding a duty."

"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning garments.

"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have any thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments cannot add to our sorrow."

But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads, and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy's purse-strings were loosened, and the required amount of money handed over.

After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary suggested, about an hour after breakfast, that it would not look well for her and Jane to be seen shopping, and Willie only buried the day before; and it was agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed in the family when there was much to do, and get her to make the purchases.

This determined, Lucy was despatched for Ellen.

The reader will transfer his mental vision to a small but neat and comfortable room in another part of the town. The inmates are two.

One, with a pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon a bed. The other is seated by a window, sewing.

"I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen," said the former, raising herself up with an effort.

"I wouldn't, if I were you, Margaret," replied the other, dropping her work and coming to the bedside. "You had better keep still, or that distressing cough may come back again."

"Indeed, sister," returned the invalid, "I feel so restless that it is almost impossible to lie here. Let me sit up a little while, and I am sure I shall feel better."

Ellen did not oppose her further, but a.s.sisted her to a large rocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow at her back, resumed her work.

"I can't help thinking of Mrs. Condy's little Willie," said Ellen, after a pause. "Dear little fellow! How much they must all feel his loss."

"He is better off, though," remarked the sister; but even that idea could not keep her eyes from glistening. The thought of death always referred itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows and the dark valley.

"Yes, he is with the angels," was the brief response of Ellen.

Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Condy's chambermaid entered.

"Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?" said Ellen, rising. "How is Mrs. Condy and all the family?"

"They are very well, Miss Ellen," replied Lucy. "Mrs. Condy wants you to come there this morning and go and buy the mourning for the family. And then they want you to come and sew all this week, and part of next, too."

Ellen glanced at her sister, involuntarily, and then said--

"I am afraid, Lucy, that I can't go. Margaret is very poorly, and I don't see how I can possibly leave her."

"O yes, you can go, Ellen," said Margaret. "You can fix me what I want, and come home every night. I'll do well enough."

Ellen paused a few moments, and then turning to Lucy, said--

"Tell Mrs. Condy that I will come round in the course of half an hour."

Lucy went away, and Ellen, after sitting irresolute for some minutes, said--

"I don't think, sister, that I can do any thing more for Mrs. Condy than her shopping. I wouldn't like to leave you alone. You know how bad your cough is sometimes."

"I'll do well enough through the day, Ellen," replied Margaret, though her feeble voice and languid manner told too plainly that she could not do very well at any time. "You know that our rent will be due in two weeks, and that you haven't yet got enough to pay it."

"That is very true," said Ellen, somewhat sadly. "Anyhow, I'll go to Mrs. Condy's, and will think about the matter."

After dressing herself, Ellen insisted that her sister should lie down. She then placed a small table close to the bed, upon which was set a few articles of food, and a vial of cough medicine. After charging Margaret to keep very quiet, and to try to sleep, she turned upon her a look of deep and yearning affection, and then hurried away.

The sight of Ellen, and the necessary allusion to the recent afflicting loss, caused the tears of the mother and sisters to flow afresh. But these were soon dried up, and so much were the minds of each interested in the idea of the mourning dresses, and in the necessary directions to be given, that few traces of the real affliction which had wrung their hearts remained, for the time, perceptible. The orders received by Ellen were promptly filled at the store where the family usually purchased their dry-goods, and the various articles sent home. The bundles arrived about the same time that Ellen returned. Then came a careful examination of the shades of colour and quality of the goods. These proving satisfactory, Jane said--

"And now, Ellen, mother's dress, and Mary's, and mine must be done this week. We'll all help you. Mary and I can make the skirts and bind cord for you, and do a good deal on the dresses. You can get them done, easily enough?"

"Indeed, Miss Jane," replied Ellen, and her voice was not steady, "I hardly know what to say. Sister is worse than she has ever been; and I don't see how I can leave her alone. She coughs terribly; and is so weak, that she can only sit up a little while. She has failed very fast within a week."

"But you know this is a case particularly pressing," said Mrs.

Condy. "There seems to be no help for it. There is no one we can get but you, now; and you know we give you all our sewing, and depend on you. Lucy says that Margaret is willing to have you come, and says that she can get on very well."

Ellen paused a moment or two, and then replied, with an expression of sadness in her voice--"I will make the dresses for you, Mrs.

Condy, but you must all help me as much as you can, so that I can get home every evening. It won't do to let Margaret be alone all night, for her cough is much worse in the evening, and before day in the morning."

Neither Mrs. Condy nor her daughters replied to this. Mentally, they deemed it impossible for Ellen to go home at night. But they did not wish to say so. It was Wednesday, and all the afternoon was consumed in cutting, fitting, and basting the dresses. Night came, and Ellen, after tea, prepared to go home. Some slight objection was made; but she was resolute. It was some time after dark when she came in sight of her chamber window. It showed that there was no light within.

Instantly she sprang forward, and soon bounded up the stairs and into the room.