“What upon earth have you been doing?  I have been halfway to the spring to call you, and hadn’t a drop of water in the kitchen to make coffee!  A pretty time of day Aaron Hunt will get his breakfast!  What do you mean by such idleness?”

She advanced with threatening mien and gesture, but stopped suddenly.

“Edna, what ails you?  Have you got an ague?  You are as white as that pan of flour.  Are you scared or sick?”

“There was a man killed this morning, and the body will be brought here directly.  If you want to hear about it, you had better go out on the porch.  One of the gentlemen is talking to grandpa.”

Stunned by what she had seen, and indisposed to narrate the horrid details, the girl went to her own room, and seating herself in the window, tried to collect her thoughts.  She was tempted to believe the whole affair a hideous dream, which would pass away with vigorous rubbing of her eyes; but the crushed purple and scarlet flowers she took from her forehead, her dripping hair and damp feet assured her of the vivid reality of the vision.  Every fibre of her frame had received a terrible shock, and when noisy, bustling Mrs. Hunt ran from room to room, ejaculating her astonishment, and calling on the child to assist in putting the house in order, the latter obeyed silently, mechanically, as if in a state of somnambulism.

Mr. Dent’s body was brought up on a rude litter of boards, and temporarily placed on Edna’s bed, and toward evening when a coffin arrived from Chattanooga, the remains were removed, and the coffin rested on two chairs in the middle of the same room.  The surgeon insisted upon an immediate interment near the scene of combat; but the gentleman who had officiated as second for the deceased expressed his determination to carry the unfortunate man’s body back to his home and family, and the earliest train on the following day was appointed as the time for their departure.  Late in the afternoon Edna cautiously opened the door of the room which she had hitherto avoided, and with her apron full of lilies, while poppies and sprigs of rosemary, approached the coffin, and looked at the rigid sleeper.  Judging from his appearance, not more than thirty years had gone over his handsome head; his placid features were unusually regular, and a soft, silky brown beard fell upon his pulseless breast.  Fearful lest she should touch the icy form, the girl timidly strewed her flowers in the coffin, and tears gathered and dropped with the blossoms, as she noticed a plain gold ring on the little finger, and wondered if he were married—­if his death would leave wailing orphans in his home, and a broken-hearted widow at the desolate hearthstone.  Absorbed in her melancholy task, she heard neither the sound of strange voices in the passage, nor the faint creak of the door as it swung back on its rusty hinges; but a shrill scream, a wild, despairing shriek terrified her, and her heart seemed to stand still as she bounded away from the side of the coffin.  The light of the setting sun streamed through the window, and over the white, convulsed face of a feeble but beautiful woman, who was supported on the threshold by a venerable, gray-haired man, down whose furrowed cheeks tears coursed rapidly.  Struggling to free herself from his restraining grasp, the stranger tottered into the middle of the room.