After the burial, the remainder of the day was spent in the silent performance of the many accumulated duties of the camp. There was no time for the luxury of grief. The women and girls washed, ironed, cooked, did the dishes, mended wearing apparel, sewed up rents in wagon-covers and tents, and gathered heaps of wild flowers, with which they adorned the fresh mound of earth that none of them expected ever to see again. * * * * * The men were not idle. A broken ox-yoke needed mending. Wagon-tires were reset. Such heavy articles as could be dispensed with were discarded. Jamie’s cradle, for which Mrs. Ranger had begged a place in their effects, and her grandmother’s spinning-wheel, which she had stored in one of the wagons, were among the articles ordered to be thrown away. “Your mother will not miss them now,” said Captain Ranger, huskily. “It is a shame to disregard our dear mother’s wishes, now that she cannot speak for herself,” said Mary, in a whisper, aside to Jean. “I know it; and I’ve already made a bargain with Mrs. McAlpin to store them in one of her wagons. Daddie will thank us for it sometime.” Sadly and silently the work went on; for the living had to be cared for, and nothing more could be done for the dead. When evening came Jean sought her journal, climbed to the rim of the little natural amphitheatre overlooking the sparkling spring of icy water near her mother’s last resting-place, and read in the last space she had left blank, in her father’s bold chirography, some lines of a poem which he had quoted from memory:— “’Twas midnight, and he sat alone, The husband of the dead. That day the dark dust had been thrown Above her buried head. “Her orphaned children round him slept, But in their sleep would moan; In bitterness of soul he wept. He was alone—alone. “The world is full of life and light, But, ah, no light for me! My little world, once warm and bright, Is cheerless as the sea. “Where is her sweet and kindly face? Where is her cordial tone? I gaze upon her resting-place And feel that I’m alone. “The lovely wife, maternal care, The self-denying zeal, The smile of hope that chased despair, And promised future weal; “The clean, bright hearth, nice table spread, The charm o’er all things thrown, The sweetness in whate’er she said,— All gone! I am alone. “I slept last night, and then I dreamed; Perchance her spirit woke; A soft light o’er my pillow gleamed, A voice in music spoke: “‘Forgot, forgiven, all neglect, Thy love recalled, alone; The babes I loved, O love, protect, I still am all thine own.’”