The Oswego’s captain sent us a box of shells next day, and a small Portuguese boy, named Manuel—­a handsome, black-eyed, husky-voiced fellow, in a red shirt, which was bound round his waist with a leather belt, from which hung a sailor’s sheath-knife.

“He is volcanic,” said Verry.

“The Portuguese are all handsome,” said Fanny, poking him, to see if he would notice it.  But he did not remove his eyes from Veronica.

“He shall be your page, Verry.”

The next night a message came to us that Abram was dying.  If we ever meant to come, Temperance sent word, some of us might come now; but she would rather have Mr. Morgeson.  Fanny insisted upon going with him to carry a lantern.  Manuel offered her his knife, when he comprehended that she was going through a dark road.

“You are a perfect heathen.  There’s nothing to be afraid of, except that Mr. Morgeson may walk into a ditch; will a knife keep us out of that?”

“Knife is good—­it kills,” he said, showing his white, vegetable-ivory teeth.

Verry and I sat up till they returned, at two in the morning.  Abram had died about midnight, distressed to the last with worldly cares.  “He asked,” said father, “if I remembered his poor boy, whose chest never came home, and wished to hear some one read a hymn; Temperance broke down when I read it, while Fanny cried hysterically.”

“I was freezing cold,” she answered haughtily.

In the morning Verry and I started for Temperance’s house; but she waited on the doorstep till I had inquired whether we were wanted.  I called her in, for Temperance asked for her as soon as she saw me.

“He was a good man, girls,” she said with emphasis.

“Indeed he was.”

“A little mean, I spose.”

I put in a demurrer; her face cleared instantly.

“He thought a great deal of your folks.”

“And a great deal of you.”

“Oh, what a loss I have met with!  He had just bought a first-rate overcoat.”

“But Temperance,” said Verry, with a lamentable candor, “you can come back now.”

“Can’t you wait for him to be put into the ground?” And she tried to look shocked, but failed.

A friend entered with a doleful face, and Temperance groaned slightly.

“It is all done complete now, Mis Handy.  He looks as easy as if he slept, he was so limber.”

“Yes, yes,” answered Temperance, starting up, and hurrying us out of the room, pinching me, with a significant look at Verry.  She was afraid that her feelings might be distressed.  “The funeral will be day after to-morrow.  Don’t come; your father will be all that must be here of the family.  I shall shut up the house and come straight to you.  I know that I am needed; but you mustn’t say a word about pay—­I can’t stand it, I have had too much affliction to be pestered about wages.”