I sithed; I thought of my Josiah; and I says, in tremblin’ tones: “When love is lost out of a heart that has held it, oh, what a soreness there must be in that heart; what an emptiness; what a lonesomeness. But,” says I, tryin’ to comfort her, “He who made our hearts, knows all about ’em. His love can fill all the deep lonesome places in ’em, and hearts that he dwells in will never break. He keeps ’em; they are safe with an eternal safety.” But all the while I was pourin’ these religious consolations onto her, this thought kept a-governin’ me, “What if it was my Josiah?” And while I held Delila Ann up with my left arm (for she seemed dreadful withy, and I expected nothin’ less than she would crumple right down on my hands), I held my white cotton handkerchief in my right hand and cried onto it for pretty nigh half a minute. I felt bad. Dretful. I thought of Josiah; and I well knew that, though the world held many a man that weighed more by the steelyards, and was far more hefty in mind, still, life without him would be like a lamp without a wick, or the world without a sun. All the seven girls was a sobbin’, and a number of ’em sithed out, “Oh, it does seem as if our hearts must break right in two.” Then I spoke up in tremblin’ tones: “If you are willin’, Delila Ann, it would be a melancholy satisfaction to me to see the corpse.” The seven girls led the way, sobbin’ as if their hearts would break right in two, and I followed on, kinder holdin’ up Delila Ann, expectin’ every minute she would faint away on my hands. We was a mournful lookin’ procession. They led the way into the next room, and led me up to a sofy, upholstered with gorgeous pillar cotton, and there, on a cushion, lay a dead pup. I was too dumbfounded to speak for nearly half a moment. “Oh!” says Delila Ann, bendin’ over him and liftin’ up some of the long white hair on his neck; “It seems as if I could give him up better if we could only have washed his lovely hair white. It got stained by the medicine we gave him in his last sickness, and we could not wash the sweet hair white again.” “No! blessed angel, we couldn’t,” cried four of ’em, bendin’ down and kissin’ of him. “Oh, what feelin’ I felt as I stood there a-lookin’ on ’em. To think I had been a-sympathizin’ and a-comfortin’ and a-pumpin’ the very depths of my soul to pour religious consolation onto ’em, and a-bewailin’ myself and sheddin’ my own tears over a whiffet pup. As I thought this over, my dumbfoundness began to go offen me, and my meun begun to look different and awful. I thrust my white cotton handkerchief back into my pocket again, with the right hand, and drew my left arm, haughtily away from Delila Ann, not carin’ whether she crumpled down and fainted away or not. I s’pose my meun apauled ’em, for Delila Ann says to me, in tremblin’ tones: