“Hardly,” said the other.

“Yes, but I know that it is, though,” added the individual who made the allegation of borrowing; “because, you see, Lucy, the chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to borrow her sister’s black bombazine, and that the girls were all hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to attend the funeral in.”

“No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did about the dead child,” remarked the cynic of the group.

“It’s a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any one,” replied the woman who had first spoken.

“It’s the truth, Mrs. Myers,” retorted Mrs. Grime.  “By their works ye shall know them.  You needn’t tell me about people being so dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a to-do about getting black to wear.  These bombazine dresses and long black veils are truly enough called mourning—­they are an excellent counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world.  Ah, me!  If all the money that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, there would be less misery in the world by a great deal.”

And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thus exercised the privilege of independent thought and free discussion, carriage after carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the whole passed out of sight.

It was near the hour of twilight when the afflicted family returned, and after partaking of supper, sparingly, and in silence, the different members retired to their chambers, and at an early hour sought relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep.

On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke the oppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fifty dollars.

“What for, Sarah?” said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with an expression of grave inquiry.

“It’s the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time is to be lost in getting mourning.  At any rate, it will be as much as a bargain to get dresses made by Sunday.  Jane and Mary will have to go out this morning and buy the goods.”

Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and somewhat painful thought.  At length, he said, looking his wife steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his countenance—­

“Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little one,” and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word, and the moisture dimmed his eyes.

“Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put on mourning,” said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest.  “How can you think of such a thing?”