Henry’s eyelids quivered slightly but his gaze was unswerving. “Yes,” said he; “it was very sudden. He was sick only a few hours.” “What did you call it?” “Gastric.” “You did not think of an examination?” “There was no need. I am perfectly certain as to the cause of his death.” Suddenly Mrs. Brigham felt a creep as of some live horror over her very soul. Her flesh prickled with cold, before an inflection of his voice. She rose, tottering on weak knees. “Where are you going?” asked Henry in a strange, breathless voice. Mrs. Brigham said something incoherent about some sewing which she had to do, some black for the funeral, and was out of the room. She went up to the front chamber which she occupied. Caroline was there. She went close to her and took her hands, and the two sisters looked at each other. “Don’t speak, don’t, I won’t have it!” said Caroline finally in an awful whisper. “I won’t,” replied Emma. That afternoon the three sisters were in the study, the large front room on the ground floor across the hall from the south parlor, when the dusk deepened. Mrs. Brigham was hemming some black material. She sat close to the west window for the waning light. At last she laid her work on her lap. “It’s no use, I cannot see to sew another stitch until we have a light,” said she. Caroline, who was writing some letters at the table, turned to Rebecca, in her usual place on the sofa. “Rebecca, you had better get a lamp,” she said. Rebecca started up; even in the dusk her face showed her agitation. “It doesn’t seem to me that we need a lamp quite yet,” she said in a piteous, pleading voice like a child’s. “Yes, we do,” returned Mrs. Brigham peremptorily. “We must have a light. I must finish this to-night or I can’t go to the funeral, and I can’t see to sew another stitch.” “Caroline can see to write letters, and she is farther from the window than you are,” said Rebecca. “Are you trying to save kerosene or are you lazy, Rebecca Glynn?” cried Mrs. Brigham. “I can go and get the light myself, but I have this work all in my lap.” Caroline’s pen stopped scratching. “Rebecca, we must have the light,” said she. “Had we better have it in here?” asked Rebecca weakly. “Of course! Why not?” cried Caroline sternly. “I am sure I don’t want to take my sewing into the other room, when it is all cleaned up for to-morrow,” said Mrs. Brigham. “Why, I never heard such a to-do about lighting a lamp.”