I set off for the cottage. Its mistress in person introduced me into the little parlor.
"Well, sir?" she said, in hard, dry accents.
"I 've come," I answered, "to ask whether I can be of any assistance to Mrs. Hicks."
Miss Horner shook her head in a manner which deprived her negation of half its dignity. "What assistance is possible?" she asked.
"A man," said I, "may relieve a woman of certain cares—"
"O, men are a blessed set! You had better leave Mrs. Hicks to me."
"But will you at least tell me how she is,—if she has in any degree recovered herself?"
At this moment the door of the adjoining room was opened, and Mrs. Hicks stood on the threshold, bearing a lamp,—a graceful and pathetic figure. I now had occasion to observe that she was a woman of decided beauty. Her fair hair was drawn back into a single knot behind her head, and the lamplight deepened the pallor of her face and the darkness of her eyes. She wore a calico dressing-gown and a shawl.
"What do you wish?" she asked, in a voice clarified, if I may so express it, by long weeping.
"He wants to know whether he can be of any assistance," said the elder lady.
Mrs. Hicks glanced over her shoulder into the room she had left. "Would you like to look at the child?" she asked, in a whisper.
"Lucy!" cried Miss Homer.
I walked straight over to Mrs. Hicks, who turned and led the way to a little bed. My conductress raised her lamp aloft, and let the light fall gently on the little white-draped figure. Even the bandage about the child's head had not dispelled his short-lived prettiness. Heaven knows that to remain silent was easy enough; but Heaven knows, too, that to break the silence—and to break it as I broke it—was equally easy. "He must have been a very pretty child," I said.
"Yes, he was very pretty. He had black eyes. I don't know whether you noticed."
"No, I did n't notice," said I. "When is he to be buried?"
"The day after to-morrow. I am told that I shall be able to avoid an inquest."
"Mr. Bingham has attended to that," I said. And then I paused, revolving his petition.
But Mrs. Hicks anticipated it. "If you would like to be present at the funeral," she said, "you are welcome to come.—And so is your friend."
"Mr. Bingham bade me ask leave. There is a great deal that I should like to say to you for him," I added, "but I won't spoil it by trying. It 's his own business."
The young woman looked at me with her deep, dark eyes. "I pity him from my heart," she said, pressing her hands to her breast. "I had rather have my sorrow than his."
"They are pretty much one sorrow," I answered. "I don't see that you can divide it. You are two to bear it. Bingham is a wise, good fellow," I went on. "I have shared a great many joys with him. In Heaven's name," I cried, "don't bear hard on him!"
"How can I bear hard?" she asked, opening her arms and letting them drop. The movement was so deeply expressive of weakness and loneliness, that, feeling all power to reply stifled in a rush of compassion, I silently made my exit.
On the following day, Bingham and I went up to town, and on the third day returned in time for the funeral. Besides the two ladies, there was no one present but ourselves and the village minister, who of course spoke as briefly as decency allowed. He had accompanied the ladies in a carriage to the graveyard, while Bingham and I had come on foot. As we turned away from the grave, I saw my friend approach Mrs. Hicks. They stood talking beside the freshly-turned earth, while the minister and I attended Miss
