“Temperance,” said Verry.

“Are you in the dark, girls?” she asked, wringing her hands, when she had put down her lamp.  “What an awful Providence!” She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica.

“It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead,” I said.  “Let us let Providence alone.”

“What did I ever leave her for?  She wasn’t fit to take care of herself.  Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven’t got off all your things yet.  And what’s this sticking out of your bosom?”

“It is her handkerchief.”  I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep over it, begging me for it.  I gave it up to her.

“It will kill your father.”

I had not thought of him.

“It’s most nine o’clock.  Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out beautifully.”

“No, no; don’t let anybody touch her!” shrieked Verry.

“No, they shan’t.  Come into the kitchen; you must have something to eat.”

I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us something I ate heartily.  Veronica drank a little milk, but would taste nothing.  Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen.

“My poor girl, I have not seen you,” embracing me, half blind with crying, “How pale you are!  How sunken!  Keep up as well as you can.  I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to suffer.  Go to your father, as soon as possible.”

“Drink this tea right down, Mercy,” said Temperance, holding a cup before her.  “There isn’t much to eat in the house.  Of all times in the world to be without good victuals!  What could Hepsey have meant?”

“Poor old soul,” Aunt Merce replied, “she is quite broken.  Fanny had to help her upstairs.”

The kitchen door opened, and Temperance’s husband, Abram, came in.

“Good Lord!” she said in an irate voice, “have you come, too?  Did you think I couldn’t get home to get your breakfast?”

She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to hear:  “Some folks could be spared better than other folks.”

Abram shoved back his hat. “‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,’ but she is a dreadful loss to the poor.  There’s my poor boy, whose clothes—­”

“Ain’t he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?” broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat.  I could not help exchanging a look with Aunt Merce; we both laughed.  Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about her.  I saw that Temperance suffered; she was perplexed and irritated.

“Let Abram stay, if he likes,” I whispered to her; “and be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed.”

She brightened with an expression of gratitude.  “He is a nuisance,” she whispered back; “but as I made a fool of myself, I must be punished according to my folly.  I’ll stay, you may depend.  I’ll do everything for you.  I vow I am mad, that I ever went away.”