"Thank God, yes," said Mrs Jared, softly, and the tears stood in her eyes as she spoke, and stood watching poor Tim as he leaned there brushing where the nap should have been upon his shabby hat, and then fidgeting and re-arranging the piece of glossy new black cloth which shone so conspicuously against the rusty head-piece. For Tim Ruggles was in deep mourning, consisting of his Sunday-clothes, wrinkled and creased as his own worn face, the above-named band, and a pair of brand-new black cloth gloves. "We have no troubles here, thank Heaven!" said Mrs Jared, and she glanced across at her husband, who grew deeply interested directly in the day before yesterday's paper--there was no _Echo_ in those days-- while Patty turned away to hide her troubled face. This was Friday, and for the whole week Tim had not done a stroke of work, but dressed himself in his best, morning after morning, and gone out,--Mrs Ruggles never knew where, but Mrs Jared guessed, and though the poor little fellow had carefully rubbed them, there were still earthy stains upon the knees of his trousers, that no amount of rubbing could remove--stains that were renewed afresh each day. And every night that week Tim had called in at Duplex Street, for he had thought nightly he would just drop in to see how they all were, and then stood gazing from child-face to child-face with a lingering eager look that was pitiful to see. No one questioned Tim, for he had come in on the Sunday night just as Jared, Patty, Janet, and Canau had returned from St Runwald's, where the latter had sat in the organ-loft, according to a regular custom of late, to aid his friend with the stops. Poor Tim! he came in holding his black-banded hat before his breast, as if to shield his wounded heart, that was too sorely hurt for him to lay it before so many friends. There was no thought there of Tim's shabby mourning, where threadbare clothes were familiar; and pitiful as was poor Tim's appearance, there was something in his hopeless look that made its way to Mrs Jared's heart; so that in spite of his expostulating, "No, ma'am, no," she would gently take him by the hand and press him back into a seat, where, with his eyes shaded, he would sit a while in silence. There was no need for words--they all knew that at last a keener blast had put out the flickering little flame which Tim had so long and carefully screened; and respecting the blow which had fallen upon him, child after child was carefully schooled not to ask after, or press upon Tim some rough plaything for little Pine; while Mrs Jared knew that sooner or later their humble friend would ease his loaded heart by making them the confidants of his trouble.