I declare for’t, if it hadn’t been for my principles and my vow, I would have turned right round in my tracks. But I remembered that it wusn’t the most pious folks that needed the most preachin’, and if ever premiscues advisin’ seemed to be called for, it was now. And jest as I was a-rememberin’ this, the hired girl came back. The minute she opened that parlor door, I see that I had got into the house of mournin’. The room, which resembled the hall and front door, as if they was three twins, seemed to be full of baraze delaine and bebinet lace, and thin ribbon, all bathed in tears and sobs. When I took a closer look, I see there was eight or nine wimmen under the gauzes, and frizzles, and folderols and et cetery. Some of ’em had dime novels in their hands and one of ’em held a white pup. The moment I entered, every one of ’em jumped up and kissed me, and throwed their arms right round me. Some of the time I had as many as six or seven arms at a time round me in different places. And every one was a-tellin’ me in awful, warm tones, how too glad, how highly tickled they was to see me. They never was so carried away with enjoyment before in their hull lives, they said. And says four of ’em, speakin’ up, tenderly, bendin’ their eight eyes, beseechingly, upon my specks, “You will stay a week with us, won’t you?” “One week!” says the little fine voice. “That hain’t nothin’; you must stay a month.” “We won’t let you off a day sooner,” says six warm voices, awful warm. “Sthay all thummer, do,” says the lispin’ voice. “Yes, do!” says the hull eight. And then Delila Ann throwed both her arms round my neck; and says she, “Oh, if you could only stay with us always, how happy, happy, we should be.” And then she laid her head right down on my shoulder, and began to sob, and weep, and cry. I was a’most sickened to the death by their behavior and actin’, but the voice of sorrow always appeals to my heart. And I see in half a minute what the matter was—Lank had gin out, had killed himself a-workin’. And though I knew she was jest as much to blame as if she was made of arsenic, and Lank had swallowed her, still, pity and sympathy makes the handsomest, shinyest kind of varnish to cover up folks’ faults with, and Delila Ann shone with it from head to foot, as she lay there on my neck, wettin’ my best collar with her tears, and almost tearin’ the lace offen it with her deep windy sithes. I pitied Delila Ann from pretty near the bottom of my heart. I forgot, for the time bein’, her actin’ and behavin’. I felt bad, and says I: “Then he is gone, Delila Ann, I feel to sympathize with you, though I never seen him. I am sorry for you as I can be sorry.” “Yes!” says she, pretty near choked up with emotion; “He is gone; we have lost him. You don’t know how we loved him. It seems as if our hearts will break.”