The sad white streamers disappeared from doors and for a space the little white hearse ceased to go glimmering by.  Then at many windows appeared small faces bearing upon them the mark of the valley of the shadow through which they had just passed.  Although they were on side streets in the dingy mill district, far removed from our pleasant windows that looked out upon trees and flowers, all Appleboro was watching these wan visages with wiser and kinder eyes.

Perhaps the most potent single factor in the arousing of our civic conscience was a small person who might have justly thought we hadn’t any:  I mean Loujaney’s little ma, whose story had crept out and gone from lip to lip and from home to home, making an appeal to which there could be no refusal.

When Major Cartwright heard it, the high-hearted old rebel hurried over to the Parish House and thrust into my hand a lean roll of bills.  And the major is by no means a rich man.

“It’s not tainted money,” said the major, “though some mighty good Bourbon is goin’ to turn into pap on account of it.  However, it’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow somebody good—­Marse Robert can come on back upstairs now an’ thaw himself out while watchin’ me read the Lamentations of Jeremiah—­who was evidently sufferin’ from a dry spell himself.”

On the following Sunday the Baptist minister chose for his text that verse of Matthew which bids us take heed that we despise not one of these little ones because in heaven their angels do always behold the face of our Father.  And then he told his people of that little one who had pretended to love dry bread when she couldn’t get any butter—­in Appleboro.  And who had gone to her rest holding to her thin breast a rag-doll that was kin to her by bornation, Loujaney being poor folks herself and knowing prezactly how’t was.

Over the heads of loved and sheltered children the Baptist brethren looked at each other.  Of course, it wasn’t their fault any more than anybody else’s.—­In a very husky voice their pastor went on to tell them of the curl which the woman who hadn’t a God’s thing left to wish for had given as a remembrance to “that good and kind man, our brother John Flint, sometimes known as the Butterfly Man.”

Dabney put the plain little discourse into print and heightened its effect by an editorial couched in the plainest terms.  We were none of us in the humor to hear a spade called an agricultural implement just then, and Dabney knew it; particularly when the mill dividends and the cemetery both showed a marked increase.

Something had to be done, and quickly, but we didn’t exactly know how nor where to begin doing it.  Laurence, insisting that this was really everybody’s business, called a mass-meeting at the schoolhouse, and the Clarion requested every man who didn’t intend to bring his women-folks to that meeting to please stay home himself.  Wherefore Appleboro town and county came with the wife of its bosom—­or maybe the wife came and fetched it along.