He found the Polleys’ shop with the shutters up in the middle of the afternoon, for the first time in his recollection. Mrs. Polley was not in the back shop; she was in her daughters’ room, to which she had gone, with rapid unsteady feet, the moment a rash or stolid customer had pushed forward to the counter, and, in place of giving an order, had told the tragedy in all its raw anguish and frightful force, without waiting to weigh words, or to secure the presence of some solemnly commissioned, skilled, and pitying comforter. The mother was sitting by the side of the bed in which ’Mily had been wont to sleep. Mrs. Polley’s hard-working hand was mechanically smoothing down the crochet quilt, which had been one of the few feats of industry accomplished by the joint efforts of the sisters while they were still at school, and in which ’Mily, though the youngest, had played the foremost part. The first married of the three workers was to have carried off the quilt, but the bargain had not been kept in spite of ’Mily’s double title to the prize. The heavy flush had not grown lighter on Mrs. Polley’s cheeks. She continued dry-eyed and silent, while all the eyes around her were dim, and the faces swollen with crying, and as Oliver—the last person there who had seen and spoken with ’Mily—entered the room, a fresh burst of lamentation broke from her sisters, even her father groaned aloud, and bowed his face over his shaking hands. Oliver took Mrs. Polley’s hand reverently. ‘I am very sorry,’ he muttered. ‘She could not have suffered. She is in better hands even than in those of the friends who loved her best. I have done all that was required.’