villagers also wept in sympathy, and as they stroked her soft hair, thought, “how much more she loved her mother than did Mary,” who, without a tear upon her cheek, sat there immovable, gazing fixedly upon the marble face of her mother.  Alice was not present, for Billy had not only succeeded in winning his mother’s consent to take the children for a few days, but he had also coaxed her to say that Alice might come before the funeral, on condition that he would remain at home and take care of her.  This he did willingly, for Alice, who had been accustomed to see him would now go to no one else except Mary.

Billy was rather awkward at baby tending, but by dint of emptying his mother’s cupboard, blowing a tin horn, rattling a pewter platter with an iron spoon, and whistling Yankee Doodle, he managed to keep her tolerably quiet until he saw the humble procession approaching the house.  Then, hurrying with his little charge to the open window, he looked out.  Side by side walked Mary and Ella, and as Alice’s eyes fell upon the former, she uttered a cry of joy, and almost sprang from Billy’s arms.  But Mary could not come; and for the next half hour Mrs. Bender corked her ears with cotton, while Billy, half distracted, walked the floor, singing at the top of his voice every tune he had ever heard, from “Easter Anthem” down to “the baby whose father had gone a hunting,” and for whom the baby in question did not care two straws.

Meantime the bodies were about to be lowered into the newly made grave, when Mrs. Johnson felt her dress nervously grasped, and looking down she saw Mary’s thin, white face uplifted towards hers with so earnest an expression, that she gently laid her hand upon her head, and said, “What is it, dear?”

“Oh, if I can,—­if they only would let me look at them once more.  I couldn’t see them at the house, my eyes were so dark.”

Mrs. Johnson immediately communicated Mary’s request to the sexton, who rather unwillingly opened the coffin lid.  The road over which they had come, was rough and stony and the jolt had disturbed the position of Frank, who no lay partly upon his mother’s shoulder, with his cheek resting against hers.  Tenderly Mary laid him back upon his own pillow, and then kneeling down and burying her face in her mother’s bosom, she for a time remained perfectly silent, although the quivering of her frame plainly told the anguish of that parting.  At length Mrs. Johnson gently whispered “Come, darling, you must come away now;” but Mary did not move; and when at last they lifted her up, they saw that she had fainted.  In a few moments she recovered, and with her arms across her sister’s neck, stood by until the wide grave was filled, and the bystanders were moving away.

As they walked homeward together, two women, who had been present at the funeral, discussed the matter as follows:—­

“They took it hard, poor things, particularly the oldest.”

“Yes, though I didn’t think she cared as much as t’other one, until she fainted, but it’s no wonder, for she’s old enough to dread the poor-house.  Did you say they were staying at widder Bender’s?”