"Dunno whether he do or no. Everything’s been upside down to-day and that reminds me——" she turned to the cupboard in the wall and took from the top shelf a box of stationery. "My dear, if you ’aven’t got nothing else to do, I think you’d better write some letters for me." Gray rose from the stool. "I shall be glad to have the job." Her lip quivered, her whole soft face crumpled into childish lines. "Oh, mammy," she said, looking forlornly across the gulf of the generations, "I do keep on thinking and thinking." Middle age accepted the further burthen. "Iss, I know you must be!" Mrs. Tom, putting comforting arms about her, drew the young head to rest against her shoulder and, at ease after what had seemed a long loneliness, Gray sobbed out the thought that had been troubling her. "’Tis the first night since auntie’s accident that she’ve been left by herself." The circumstances of this death, seeming to reflect on her conduct, had added a poignancy to what would otherwise have been endurable. "We can’t pick nor choose our hour," said Mrs. Tom gravely; "’cos, when ’tis the Lorrd’s time, it must be ours whether we’m ready or no." "Yes, mammy, but I’ve got the feeling that if I hadn’t gone away it wouldn’t have happened." But Mrs. Tom could comfort her daughter with the larger outlook that proves our insignificance. We are less important than we feared. We are of no importance at all. "My dear, you mustn’t look at the black side. Her time was come and she’d be sorry for you to grieve yerself so. I knaw you’ve been like a daughter to ’er all these months and she did dearly love yer; but when it come to the end she wouldn’t be wantin’ you nor me. She had other things to think about." "Supposing she was suff’rin’, mammy?" "She couldn’t ’av suffered anything, my dear, and that you’ll say when you see ’er face. ’Tis lovely, just like an angel. She must ’a passed away in ’er sleep." Mrs. Tom’s words, turning mortal death into the visitation of God, had the effect she wished. Gray, forgetting the personal equation, had a quieting vision of powers at once superhuman and beneficent. The Unknown, that was God and Good, had blossomed about her homely aunt and, through those dead eyes, all might look for a little moment into the Beyond. "You’m a better ’and for writin’ letters than I be," said Mrs. Tom, returning after a time to the simple needs of the hour. "And there is people who must know that yer auntie is gone." She turned to the table, rummaging in the box of stationery. "I always keep some mournin’ letters in the bottom of this. Ah, ’ere ’tis," and she extracted some black-edged paper. Gray, with death at once simplified and exalted, was able to follow her lead. She had been to a school in Stowe kept by two Welsh ladies and was passably instructed, that is to say, knew how to cast accounts and phrase a simple letter. "Who must I write to, mammy?"