Just now we saw some people coming up the road, and we thought at first that they were the man and his wife coming back; but they proved to be strangers, and we eagerly asked what had become of the family.

“They’re dead, both on ’em.  His wife she died about nine weeks ago last Sunday, and he died day before yesterday.  Funeral’s going to be this afternoon.  Thought ye were some of her folks from up country, when we were coming along,” said the man.

“Guess they won’t come nigh,” said the woman, scornfully; “’fraid they’d have to help provide for the children.  I was half-sister to him, and I’ve got to take the two least ones.”

“Did you say he was going to be buried this afternoon?” asked Kate, slowly.  We were both more startled than I can tell.

“Yes,” said the man, who seemed much better-natured than his wife.  She appeared like a person whose only aim in life was to have things over with.  “Yes, we’re going to bury at two o’clock.  They had a master sight of trouble, first and last.”

Leander had said nothing all this time.  He had known the man, and had expected to spend the day with him and to get him to go on two miles farther to help bargain for a dory.  He asked, in a disappointed way, what had carried him off so sudden.

“Drink,” said the woman, relentlessly.  “He ain’t been good for nothing sence his wife died:  she was took with a fever along in the first of August. I’d ha’ got up from it!”

“Now don’t be hard on the dead, Marthy,” said her husband.  “I guess they done the best they could.  They weren’t shif’less, you know; they never had no health; ’t was against wind and tide with ’em all the time.”  And Kate asked, “Did you say he was your brother?”

“Yes.  I was half-sister to him,” said the woman, promptly, with perfect unconsciousness of Kate’s meaning.

“And what will become of those poor children?”

“I’ve got the two youngest over to my place to take care on, and the two next them has been put out to some folks over to the cove.  I dare say like’s not they’ll be sent back.”

“They’re clever child’n, I guess,” said the man, who spoke as if this were the first time he had dared take their part.  “Don’t be ha’sh, Marthy!  Who knows but they may do for us when we get to be old?” And then she turned and looked at him with utter contempt.  “I can’t stand it to hear men-folks talking on what they don’t know nothing about,” said she.  “The ways of Providence is dreadful myster’ous,” she went on with a whine, instead of the sharp tone of voice which we had heard before.  “We’ve had a hard row, and we’ve just got our own children off our hands and able to do for themselves, and now here are these to be fetched up.”

“But perhaps they’ll be a help to you; they seem to be good little things,” said Kate.  “I saw them in the summer, and they seemed to be pleasant children, and it is dreadfully hard for them to be left alone.  It’s not their fault, you know.  We brought over something for them; will you be kind enough to take the basket when you go home?”