Motherless!--that in that little word should be compressed such weary weight of woe! It were sad to be written fatherless--but God and his ministering angels only know how dark this earth may be, when she who was never weary of us with all our frailties--she, to whom our very weaknesses clamored more loudly for love, lies careless of our tears.
"Henry!" said Mr. Wade to Mr. Hereford, "I had no idea, in fact--I didn't think"--and the embarrassed man tried to rub open his still sleepy eyes--"I didn't suppose, really, that Mrs. Wade would die yet; women are so notional, and that doctor seemed to be encouraging Mrs. Wade to be sick, as doctors always do--really I am quite taken by surprise, as one may say; I don't know any thing about these things--I should like to have you do what is necessary. I suppose it will not be considered the thing for me to go to the store to-day," and he looked for encouragement to do so in the face of his disgusted son-in-law.
"I should think not, decidedly," said Mr. Hereford, dryly.
"Of course it would not be my wish," said Mr. Wade, "when poor Susan lies dead; but one's duty, you know, sometimes runs a different way from one's inclination."
And _vice versâ_, thought Henry, but he merely remarked that he would take any message for him to his place of business.
Mr. Wade could do no less than accept his offer, so, after eating his usual breakfast with his usual appetite, he paced up and down the parlor; got up and sat down; and looked out at the window, and tried in various ways to stifle certain uncomfortable feelings which began to disturb his digestion. It was uncomfortable--very. The awe-struck face of Betty as she stole in and out, the swollen eyes of the children, the pallid face of Mrs. Hereford, who was trying to give them the consolation she so much needed herself, and the heavy step of the undertaker over-head performing his repulsive office. And so the day wore away; and the form, that a child might have lifted, was laid in the coffin, and no trace of pain or sorrow lay upon the face upon which the death-angel had written Peace!
Why did _he_ fear to look upon its placid sweetness? No reproach ever came from the living lips--did he fear it from the dead?