Poor, little soul! Both hands clasped convulsively. That curious quiver came to her eyelids, and the movement in her slender throat showed that she swallowed dryly at something--sorrow is always so hard to swallow! Then she flung out her arms, and giving a cry that pierced like a knife, she flung herself out of the kitchen, and, of all, places in the house, made straight for the dark store-room, off the dining-room; she who feared but two things, lightning and utter darkness, now sought the latter, and closed the door behind her, where we heard her little hands feeling for some catch or bolt to fasten it, but luckily, there was none. Mrs. Tyler was nearly wild; the pantry was very small, utterly dark, and nearly airless. In it were kept barrels of flour and sugar, boxes of tea and bags of coffee, and closed, it was black as night. She prayed, pleaded, flattered, promised, and to each prayer came a kick at the door, and the threat, “If you touch the door, I’ll make me dead! I will! I will!” Everyone stood helpless before this small child’s power to harm herself. Mrs. Tyler denounced Norah for telling. Other members of the family begged at the door to speak to Marie a moment, just a moment, in vain; yet her voice was distinctly weaker, and all were frightened. “I must bring her out by force!” declared Mr. Tyler. And then, for the last time, I was called upon to play “lightning-rod.” The uncle said, “Let Carrie try,” and then all hands were on my shoulder, pushing me forward, and before I knew it I was alone. I on one side of the door, stupid and idealess, and Marie on the other side, heartbroken and relentless. I was quite a big girl then, but I’m afraid I had my finger in my mouth. I tried to think, but I didn’t; on the contrary, I discovered a little nail-hole in the door that had been filled up with putty, and then, faint and low, almost in a whisper, I heard, “Oh, Cawie, Cawie! Oh, my Dinah!” And I sprang to the door, opened it, and went in, and the next instant I was sitting on a bag of salt, and poor Marie was across my knees, sobbing as though her heart would break. I had left the door part way open, and as I heard some one cautiously approaching, I wildly waved my half-laced boots at them to keep away. I had not said a word; I only sat smoothing her silky, auburn hair, while she cried, and cried, and cried, and every now and then gasped, “She’s gone, all gone, every bit of her! Oh, my Dinah!” But when she once added, “and I can’t do anything for her in the world,” my idea at last arrived, hurried, out of breath and belated, but still an idea, and I eagerly said, “Oh, Marie, dear, there’s a little of her left, enough to make a beautiful funeral!” She shook her head, saying, “Got to have their bodies to make funerals.” “But,” I went on, “don’t you remember the poor men your papa saw all blowed up by the engine? There wasn’t much left of them, but they had funerals, every one of them.”