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“Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put on mourning,” said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. “How can you think of such a thing?”

“Why, father, it would never do in the world,” added the eldest daughter, Jane. “I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I were to neglect so binding a duty.”

“And what would people say?” asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning garments.

“I don’t see, Mary,” replied Mr. Condy, “that other people have any thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments cannot add to our sorrow.”

But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads, and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy’s purse-strings were loosened, and the required amount of money handed over.

After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary suggested, about an hour after breakfast, that it would not look well for her and Jane to be seen shopping, and Willie only buried the day before; and it was agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed in the family when there was much to do, and get her to make the purchases. This determined, Lucy was despatched for Ellen.

The reader will transfer his mental vision to a small but neat and comfortable room in another part of the town. The inmates are two. One, with a pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon a bed. The other is seated by a window, sewing.

“I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen,” said the former, raising herself up with an effort.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Margaret,” replied the other, dropping her work and coming to the bedside. “You had better keep still, or that distressing cough may come back again.”

“Indeed, sister,” returned the invalid, “I feel so restless that it is almost impossible to lie here. Let me sit up a little while, and I am sure I shall feel better.”

Ellen did not oppose her further, but assisted her to a large rocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow at her back, resumed her work.

“I can’t help thinking of Mrs. Condy’s little Willie,” said Ellen, after a pause. “Dear little fellow! How much they must all feel his loss.”

“He is better off, though,” remarked the sister; but even that idea could not keep her eyes from glistening. The thought of death always referred itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows and the dark valley.

“Yes, he is with the angels,” was the brief response of Ellen.

Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Condy’s chambermaid entered.

“Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?” said Ellen, rising. “How is Mrs. Condy and all the family?”

“They are very well, Miss Ellen,” replied Lucy. “Mrs. Condy wants you to come there this morning and go and buy the mourning for the family. And then they want you to come and sew all this week, and part of next, too.”

Ellen glanced at her sister, involuntarily, and then said–

“I am afraid, Lucy, that I can’t go. Margaret is very poorly, and I don’t see how I can possibly leave her.”

“O yes, you can go, Ellen,” said Margaret. “You can fix me what I want, and come home every night. I’ll do well enough.”

Ellen paused a few moments, and then turning to Lucy, said–

“Tell Mrs. Condy that I will come round in the course of half an hour.”

Lucy went away, and Ellen, after sitting irresolute for some minutes, said–

“I don’t think, sister, that I can do any thing more for Mrs. Condy than her shopping. I wouldn’t like to leave you alone. You know how bad your cough is sometimes.”