The few days between the death and the funeral were passed by all in an uneasy state of apprehension as to what would follow. Rees was hardly ever in the house, and could not be approached on the subject of his future actions. Hervey mooned about, comforting himself, after his usual fashion, by great thoughts of life and death, and the impracticable things he would do to get his family out of their difficulties. Godwin went quietly backwards and forwards to the bank as usual. Deborah kept out of Mrs. Pennant’s way, believing, poor child, that as that lady had never liked her, and had only suffered her to remain a member of the household in consequence of the captain’s express wish, she should now be ignominiously expelled on the first decent opportunity. Deborah was Captain Pennant’s truest mourner. During the days when he lay dead in the house, she spent most of her time watching by his coffin, gazing at the passionately loved face of her “father,” as she had always called him, and grieving over her loss with all the intensity of her fiercely loving nature. The remaining hours of her time she spent, not in luxurious regret at leaving the old house which had so long been her home, but in looking over the clothes of the boys and mending such as wanted repairs, and in doing every little bit of active work she could think of to save Mrs. Pennant trouble. She did not love Mrs. Pennant; sometimes she had felt she almost hated her; but she appreciated the sense of duty to her husband which had made the lady tolerate her presence, and she felt bound to make what small return she could before breaking what she believed to be to the elder lady a galling tie. So, on the day after the funeral, Deborah presented herself early in the day before Mrs. Pennant in her walking dress. The elder lady was writing at the table, and the girl stood for some moments watching her, without speaking; she was a good deal affected by the prospect of parting, now that it was so near, more especially as she noticed that Mrs. Pennant had aged suddenly, and that her handsome face showed the lines and wrinkles brought by care and anxiety more clearly than ever before. At last Mrs. Pennant looked up. “Oh, are you going out, Deborah? Would you mind taking these letters to the post for me? I have just finished.” Deborah murmured assent, and Mrs. Pennant bent over her writing. As she closed the last envelope, she looked up again. The girl stepped forward and quietly took up the letters. Then, turning to go, she addressed Mrs. Pennant without facing her, for she was afraid of breaking down, and bringing upon herself a cold reproof.