“Here is a dress for you, Ellen,” she said, handing her the piece of bombazine.

Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face flushed an instant, and then grew pale.

“You will want a black dress, Ellen,” resumed Mrs. Condy, “and I have bought you one.”

“I do not wish to put on black,” said she, with a slightly embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled and was hardly audible.

“And why not, Ellen?” urged Mrs. Condy.

“I never liked black,” she replied evasively.  “And, anyhow, it would do no good,” she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one.

“No, child, it wouldn’t do any good,” said Mr. Condy, tenderly and with emotion.  “And if you don’t care about having it, don’t take it.”

Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent silently over her work.  The hearts of all present were touched by her simple and true remark, “that it would do no good,” and each one respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits.  And never did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of Ellen’s unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them.

IF THAT WERE MY CHILD!

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Pelby!  Good evening, Mr. Manly!  I am glad to see you!  Mrs. Little and I were just saying that we wished some friends would step in.”

“Well, how do you do this evening, Mrs. Little?” said Mr. Pelby, after they were all seated.  “You look remarkably well.  And how is your little family?”

“We are all bright and hearty,” Mrs. Little replied, smiling.  “Little Tommy has just gone off to bed.  If you had come in a few minutes sooner, you would have seen the dear little fellow.  He’s as lively and playful as a cricket.”

“How old is he now?” asked Mr. Manly.

“He will be two years and six months old the twenty-third of next month.”

“Just the age of my Edward.  How much I should like to see him!”

“I don’t think he has gone to sleep yet,” said the fond mother of an only child, rising and going off to her chamber.

“You bachelors don’t sympathize much with us fathers of families,” said Mr. Little, laughing, to Mr. Pelby.

“How should we?”

“True enough!  But then you can envy us; and no doubt do.”

“It’s well enough for you to think so, Little.  But, after all, I expect we are the better off.”

“Don’t flatter yourself in any such way, Mr. Pelby.  I’ve been”—­

“Here’s the darling!” exclaimed Mrs. Little, bounding gayly in the room at the moment, with Tommy, who was laughing and tossing his arms about in delight at being taken up from his bed, into which he had gone reluctantly.

“Come to pa, Tommy,” said Mr. Little, reaching out his hands.  “Now ain’t that a fine little fellow?” he continued, looking from face to face of his two friends, and showing off Tommy to the best possible advantage that his night-gown would permit.  And he was a sweet child; with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and clustering golden ringlets.