Dutiful little wife! She went to send her headaching husband half a mile away, to offer consolation, unto whom? I sat upon the step until he had done. The years were not many,--half a score less than the appointed lot. Would he come out? He did. I heard him coming; but I would not move. I knew that I was in his way, and wanted him to have to speak to me. I sat just where he must stand to lock the door. "Are you waiting to see me?" he asked. "Is there anything for the sexton to do?" I arose, and turned my face toward him. "I am waiting to see if I can do anything for you. I am your minister's wife's sister." What could have made him shake so? And such a queer, incongruous answer he gave! "Isn't it enough to have a voice, without a face's coming to torment me too?" It was _not_ the voice that spoke in the tower yesterday. It was of the kind that has a lining of sentiment that it never was meant by the Good Spirit should be turned out for the world to breathe against, making life with mortals a mental pleurisy. "I hope I don't torment you." "You do." "When did your mother die?" "There! I knew! _Will_ you take away your sympathy? I haven't anything to do with it." "You'll tell me, please, if I can do anything for you, or up at your house. Do you live near here?" "It's a long way. You can't go." "Oh, yes, I can. I like walking." He locked the door, and dropped the key when he was done. I picked it up, before he could get it. A melodious "Thank you," coming as from another being, rewarded me. "Let me stop and tell my sister, and I'll go with you," I said, believing that he had consented. The old voice again was used as he said,-- "No, you had better not"; and he quickly walked on his way. Completely baffled in my expectation of touching this strange being by proffers of kindness, I turned toward the parsonage. Aaron was already gone on his ministerial mission. "What strange people one does find in this world!" said Sophie, as I gave her the history of my defeat. "Now this Axtell family are past my comprehension." "Ah! a family. I didn't think him a married man." "Neither is he." "Then what is the family?" "The mother, a sister, and himself." "Do you know the sister?" "Just a little. She is the finest person in mind we have here, but wills to live alone, except she can do deeds of charity. I met her once in a poor farmer's house. The man had lost his wife. Such a soft, sweet glamour of comfort as she was winding in and out over his sorrow, until she actually had the poor fellow looking up with an expression that said he was grateful for the good gift Heaven had gained! She stopped as soon as I went in. I wish she would come out in Redleaf." "And the mother?" "A proud old lady, sick these many years, and, ever since we've been here, confined to her room. I've only seen her twice." "And now she's dead?" Sophie was silent. "Who'll dig her grave?" One of my bits of mental foam that strike the shore of sound.