Barmouth immediately, and the next day grand’ther died.  He gave all he had to Aunt Mercy, except six silver spoons, which he directed the Barmouth silversmith to make for Caroline, who was now married to her missionary.  Mother came home to prepare for the funeral.  When the bonnets, veils, and black gloves came home, Veronica declared she would not go.  As she had been allowed to stay away from Grand’ther Warren living, why should she be forced to go to him when dead?  She was so violent in her opposition that mother ordered Temperance to keep her in her room.  Father tried to persuade her, but she grew white, and trembled so that he told her she should stay at home.  While we were gone she sent her bonnet to the Widow Smith’s daughter, who appeared in the Poor Seats wearing it, on the very Sunday after the funeral, when we all went to church in our mourning to make the discovery, which discomposed us exceedingly.

All the church were present at grand’ther’s funeral,—­obsequies, as Mr. Boold called it, who exalted his character and behavior so greatly in his discourse that his nearest friends would not have recognized him, although everybody knew that he was a good man.  Mr. Boold expatiated on his tenderness and delicate appreciation, and his study of the feelings and wants of others, till he was moved to tears himself by the picture he drew.  I thought of the pigeons he had shot, and of the summary treatment he gave me—­of his coldness and silence toward Aunt Mercy, and my eyes remained dry; but mother and Aunt Mercy wept bitterly.  After it was over, and they had gone back to the empty house, they removed their heavy bonnets, kissed each other, said they knew that he was in heaven, and held a comforting conversation about the future; but my mind was chained to the edge of the yawning grave into which I had seen his coffin lowered.

“Shut up the old shell, Mercy,” said father.  “Come, and live with us.”

She was rejoiced at the prospect, for the life at our house was congenial, and she readily and gratefully consented.  She came in a few days, with a multitude of boxes, and her plants.  Mother established her in the room next the stairs—­good place for her, Veronica said, for she could be easily locked out of our premises.  The plants were placed on a new revolving stand, which stood on the landing-place beneath the stair window.  Veronica was so delighted with them that she made amicable overtures to Aunt Mercy, and never quarreled with her afterward, except when she was ill.  She entreated her to leave off her bombazine dresses; the touch of them interfered with her feelings for her, she said; in fact, their contact made her crawl all over.