go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren. "She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have her way." "Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce, coming into my room dressed for the funeral. "No." "The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages already." Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted. "Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing. "How could you have done this?" "Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?" "Yes, the idea." But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape. "Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was wan and languid, but collected. "I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house be empty?" "Yes." "Good; I can walk through it once more." "The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?" "You think I can go through with it, then?" "I have set your behavior down to your will." "You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me."