They were in sight of the farmhouse now, and Bell, with her city ideas, was looking curiously at it, mentally pronouncing it a nicer, pleasanter place than she had supposed, inasmuch as it reminded her of the description she had read of the Virginia farmhouse, where a young officer was encamped for a few days, an officer who wore a lieutenant’s uniform and who signed himself as Bob.  It was very quiet about the house, and old Whitey’s neigh as Morris’ span of bays came up was the only sound which greeted them.  In the woodshed door Uncle Ephraim sat smoking his clay pipe and likening the feathery waves which curled above his head to the little soul so recently gone upward, while by his side, upon a log of wood, holding a pan of the luscious peaches she was slicing up for tea, sat a woman whom Bell knew at once for Aunt Betsy Barlow, thinking more of the peaches than of the old lady who, pan in hand, came forward to met her, curtseying very low when introduced by Morris, and asking to be excused from shaking hands, inasmuch as hers were not fit to be touched.  Bell’s quick eye took her in at a glance, from her clean spotted gown to her plain muslin cap tied with a black ribbon, put on that day with a view to mourning, and then darted off to Uncle Ephraim, who won her heart at once when she heard how his voice trembled as he took Wilford’s hand and said so pityingly, so father-like:  “Young man, this is a sad day for you and you have my sympathy, for I remember well how my heart ached when, on just such a day as this, my only child lay dead as yours is lying.”

Every muscle of Wilford’s face quivered then, but he was too proud to show all that he felt, and he was glad when Helen appeared in the door, as that diverted his mind somewhat, and he greeted her most cordially, even stooping down and kissing her smooth forehead, a thing he had never done before.  But sorrow is a great softener and Wilford was very sorry, feeling his loss more here where everything was so quiet, so suggestive of death.

“Where is Katy?” he asked.

“She is sleeping for the first time since the baby died.  She is in here with the child.  She will stay nowhere else,” Helen said, opening softly the door of the bedroom and motioning Wilford in.

With hushed breath and a beating heart, Wilford stepped across the threshold and Helen closed the door, leaving him alone with the living and the dead.  Pure and beautiful as some fair blossom, the dead child lay upon the bed, the curls of golden hair clustering about its head, and on its lips the smile which had settled there when it tried to say “mamma”—­its dimpled hands folded upon its breast, where lay the cross of flowers which Marian Hazelton had made—­flowers upon its pillow, flowers around its head, flowers upon its shroud, flowers everywhere, and itself the fairest flower of all, Wilford thought as he stood gazing at it and then let his eye move on to where poor, tired, worn-out Katy had crept up so close beside