“Et tu, Brute!” Mag could have said, but ’twas neither the time nor the place, and linking her arm within her brother’s she led him into the adjoining room, where stood their mother’s coffin.

CHAPTER IV.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

Across the bright waters of the silvery lake which lay not far from Glenwood village, over the grassy hillside, and down the long, green valley, had floated the notes of the tolling bell.  In the Hamilton mansion sympathizing friends had gathered, and through the crowded parlors a solemn hush had reigned, broken only by the voice of the white-haired man of God, who in trembling tones prayed for the bereaved ones.  Over the costly coffin tear-wet faces had bent, and on the marble features of her who slept within it had been pressed the passionate kisses of a long, a last farewell.

Through the shady garden and across the running brook, whose waters this day murmured more sadly than ’twas their wont to do, the funeral train had passed; and in the dark, moist earth, by the side of many other still, pale sleepers, who offered no remonstrance when among them another came, they had buried the departed.  From the windows of the homestead lights were gleaming, and in the common sitting-room sat Ernest Hamilton, and by his side his four motherless children.  In the stuffed armchair, sacred for the sake of one who had called it hers, reclined the black bombazine and linen collar of Widow Carter!

She had, as she said, fully intended to return home immediately after the burial, but there were so many little things to be seen to, so much to be done, which Margaret, of course, did not feel like doing, that she decided to stay until after supper, together with Lenora, who had come to the funeral.  When supper was over, and there was no longer an excuse for lingering, she found, very greatly to her surprise and chagrin, no doubt, that the clouds, which all day had looked dark and angry, were now pouring rain.

“What shall I do?” she exclaimed in great apparent distress; then stepping to the door of the sitting-room, she said, “Maggie, dear, can you lend me an umbrella?  It is raining very hard, and I do not wish to go home without one; I will send it back to-morrow.”

“Certainly,” answered Margaret.  “Umbrella and overshoes, too;” and rising, she left the room to procure them.

“But you surely are not going out in this storm,” said Mr. Hamilton; while Carrie, who really liked Mrs. Carter, and felt that it would be more lonely when she was gone, exclaimed eagerly, “Oh, don’t leave us to-night, Mrs. Carter.  Don’t.”

“Yes, I think I must,” was the answer, while Mr. Hamilton continued:  “You had better stay; but if you insist upon going, I will order the carriage, as you must not walk.”

“Rather than put you to all that trouble, I will remain,” said Mrs. Carter; and when Mag returned with two umbrellas and two pairs of overshoes, she found the widow comfortably seated in her mother’s armchair, while on the stool at her side sat Lenora looking not unlike a little imp, with her wild, black face, and short, thick curls.