And she was not. Even Miss Bethia could not bring herself to put aside the words of the boy who lay sobbing in the dark, outside his mother's door.

"He's right," said she. "It don't matter the least in the world. There don't anything seem to matter much. She sha'n't be worried. Let it go," said Miss Bethia, with a break in her sharp voice. "It'll fit, I dare say, well enough--and if it don't, you can fix it afterwards. Let it go now."

But David came down, humble and sorry, in a little while.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Bethia," said he. "I don't suppose mamma would have cared, and you might have gone in. Only--" His voice failed him.

"Don't worry a mite about it," said Miss Bethia, with unwonted gentleness. "It don't matter--and it is to you your mother must look now."

But this was more than David could bear. Shaking himself free from her detaining hand, he rushed away out of sight--out of the house--to the hay-loft, the only place where he could hope to be alone. And he was not alone there; for the first thing he heard when the sound of his own sobbing would let him hear anything, was the voice of some one crying by his side.

"Is it you, Jem?" asked he, softly.

"Yes, Davie."

And though they lay there a long time in the darkness, they did not speak another word till they went into the house again.

But there is no use dwelling on all these sorrowful days. The last one came, and they all went to the church together, and then to the grave.

Standing on the withered gra.s.s, from which the spring sunshine was beginning to melt the winter snow, they listened to the saddest sound that can fall on children's ears, the fall of the clods on their father's coffin-lid, and then they went back to the empty house to begin life all over again without their father's care.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Mr Oswald, Frank's father, came home with them. He had been written to when Mr Inglis died, and had reached Gourlay the day before the funeral, but he had not stayed at their house, and they had hardly seen him till now. They were not likely to see much of him yet, for he was a man with much business and many cares, and almost the first words he said when he came into the house, were, that he must leave for home that night, or at the latest the next morning.

"And that means whatever you want to say to me, must be said at once, and the sooner the better," said Miss Bethia, as she took Mrs Inglis's heavy c.r.a.pe bonnet and laid it carefully in one of the deep drawers of the bureau in her room. "I haven't the least doubt but I know what he ought to say, and what she ought to say, better than they know themselves. But that's nothing. It ain't the right one that's put in the right spot, not more than once in ten times--at least it don't look like it," added she, with an uncomfortable feeling that if any one were to know her thoughts he might accuse her of casting some reflections on the Providential arrangement of affairs. "They don't realise that I could help them any, and it will suit better if I leave them. So I'll see if I can't help Debby about getting tea."

There was not much said for a time, however. Mrs Inglis evidently made a great effort to say something, and asked about Frank and the family generally, and then said something about his journey, and then about the sudden breaking-up of the winter roads. Mr Oswald felt it to be cruel to make her speak at all, and turned to the children.

"Which is Davie?" asked he, in a little.

David rose and came forward.

"I thought you had been older. Frank seemed to speak as if you were almost a man," said he, holding out his hand.

"I am past fourteen," said David.

"And are you ready for the university, as Frank thought, or is that a mistake of his, too?"

"Yes," said David. "I am almost ready."

"Oh! he was ready long ago," said Jem, coming to the rescue. "Frank said he was reading the same books that his brother read in the second year."

"Indeed!" said Mr Oswald, smiling at his eagerness. "And you are Jem?

You are neither of you such giants as I gathered from Frank, but perhaps the mistake was mine. But when one hears of horse-shoeing and Homer-- you know one thinks of young men."

"And this is Violet, only we call her Letty; and this is Ned, and I am Jessie, and this is wee Polly," said Jessie, a st.u.r.dy little maiden of eight, looking with her honest grey eyes straight into Mr Oswald's face. He acknowledged her introduction by shaking hands with each as she named them.

"I find I have made another mistake," said he. "I thought Letty was a little girl who always stood at the head of her cla.s.s, and who could run races with her brothers, and gather nuts, and be as nice as a boy. That was Frank's idea."

"And so she can," said Ned.

"And so she is," said Jem.

"That was so long ago," said Violet, in confusion.

It seemed ages ago to all the children.

"And Violet has grown a great deal since then," said Jem. "And are Frank's eyes better?"

"They are no worse. We hope they are better, but he cannot use them with pleasure, poor fellow."

And so they went on talking together, till they were called to tea.

Miss Bethia was quite right. He did not in the least know how to begin to say what he knew must be said before he went away.

After tea, the younger children went to bed, and Miss Bethia betook herself to the kitchen and Debby, thinking, to herself, it would be well for all concerned if it should fall to her to straighten out things after all; for Mr Oswald had been walking up and down the room in silence for the last half-hour, "looking as black as thunder," Miss Bethia said, in confidence, to Debby, and no one else had spoken a word.

It was a very painful half-hour to Mr Oswald. He had only begun his walk when it seemed to him impossible that he could sit and look at the pale, patient face and drooping figure of the widow a single moment more. For he was in a great strait. He was in almost the saddest position that a man not guilty of positive wrong can occupy. He was a poor man, supposed to be rich. For years, his income had scarcely sufficed for the expenses of his family; for the last year it had not sufficed. It was necessary for the success of his business, or, he supposed, it was necessary that he should be considered a rich man; and he had hara.s.sed himself and strained every nerve to keep up appearances, and now he was saying to himself that this new claim upon him could not possibly be met. He was not a hard man, though he had sometimes been called so. At this moment, his heart was very tender over the widow and her children; and it was the thought that, in strict justice, he had no right to do for them as he wished to do, that gave him so much pain.

Waiting would not make it better, however, and in a little while he came and sat down by Mrs Inglis, and said:

"It seems cruel that I should expect you to speak about--anything to-night. But, indeed, it is quite necessary that I should return home to-morrow, and I might be able to advise you, if you would tell me your plans."

But, as yet, Mrs Inglis had no plans.

"It came so suddenly," said she, speaking with difficulty; "and--you are very kind."

"Will you tell me just how your affairs stand? Unless there is some one else who can do it better, I will gladly help you in your arrangements for the future."

There was no one else, and it was not at all difficult to tell him the state of their affairs. They were not at all involved. There were no debts. The rent of the house was paid till the next autumn; there were some arrears of salary, and Mrs Inglis had a claim on a minister's widow's fund in connection with the branch of the church to which her husband had belonged, but the sum mentioned as the possible annual amount she would receive was so small, that, in Mr Oswald's mind, it counted for nothing. And that was all! Mr Oswald was amazed.

"Was there not something done at one time--about insuring your husband's life?" asked he, gently.

"Yes; a good many years ago. He could not manage it then--nor since.

Our income has never been large." And she named the sum.

Mr Oswald rose suddenly, and began his walk about the room again. It was incredible! A scholar and a gentleman like his cousin to rest contented all these years with such a pittance! He knew that he had been earnest and full of zeal in the cause to which he had devoted his life--more than content. Valuing money for the sake of what it could do, he had yet envied no man who had more than fell to his lot. He must have known that his children must be left penniless! How could he have borne it?

"And how should I leave mine, if I were to die to-night?" said Mr Oswald to himself, with a groan. "I who have lived a life so different."

He came and sat down again. But what could he say? Mrs Inglis spoke first.

"I have made no plans as yet. There has been no time. But I am not afraid. The way will open before us."

"Yes, you must have good courage. And you will tell me in what way I can be of use to you."

"You are very kind," said Mrs Inglis, speaking quickly. "You may be sure I shall gladly avail myself of your advice. I am not afraid. My boys are strong and willing to work. We love one another, and there are worse things than poverty."

"And, for the present, you will remain here at any rate. In a few weeks I shall see you again; and, in the meantime, you must permit me to supply anything you may require."