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In truth, all the village was scandalized at the strange attire of the widow and daughter of Richard Stone at his funeral, except William Crane. He could not have told what Mrs. Stone wore, through scarcely admitting her in any guise into his inmost
consciousness, and as for Narcissa, he admitted her so fully that he could not see her robes at all in such a dazzlement of vision.

“William Crane never took his eyes off Narcissa Stone all through the funeral; shouldn’t be surprised if he married her in a month or six weeks,” people said.

Willaim Crane took Jane and Narcissa to the grave in his covered wagon, keeping his old white horse at a decorous jog behind the hearse in the little funeral procession, and people noted that. They wondered if he would go over to the Stones’ that evening, and watched, but he did not. He left the mother and daughter to their closer communion of grief that night, but the next the neighbors saw him in his best suit going down the road before dark.”Must have done up his chores early to get started soon as this,” they said.

William Crane was about Narcissa’s age but he looked older. His gait was shuffling, his hair scanty and gray, and, moreover, he had that expression of patience which comes only from long abiding, both of body and soul. He went through the south yard to the side door of the house, stepping between the rocks. The yard abounded in mossy slopes of half-sunken rocks, as did the entire farm. Folks often remarked of Richard Stone’s place, as well as himself, “Stone by name, and stone by nature.”Underneath nearly all his fields, cropping plentifully to the surface, were rock ledges. The grass could be mown only by hand. As for this south yard, it required skilful manœuvring to drive a team through it. When William Crane knocked that evening, Narcissa opened the door.”Oh, it’s you!” she said.”How do you do?”

“How do you do, Narcissa?” William responded, and walked in. He could have kissed his old love in the gloom of the little entry, but he did not think of that. He looked at her anxiously with his soft, patient eyes.”How are you gettin’ on?” he asked.

“Well as can be expected,” replied Narcissa.

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s well as can be expected.”

William followed Narcissa, who led the way, not into the parlor, as he had hoped, but into the kitchen. The kitchen’s great interior of smoky gloom was very familiar to him, but to-night it looked strange. For one thing, the arm-chair to which Richard Stone had been bound with his rheumatism for the last fifteen years was vacant, and pushed away into a corner. William looked at it, and it seemed to him that he must see the crooked, stern old figure in it, and hear again the peremptory tap of the stick which he kept always at his side to summon assistance. After his first involuntary glance at the dead man’s chair, William saw his widow coming forward out of her bedroom with a great quilt over her arm.

“Good-evenin’, William,” she said, with faint melancholy, then lapsed into feeble weeping.

“Now, mother, you said you wouldn’t; you know it don’t do any good, and you’ll be sick,” Narcissa cried out, impatiently.

“I know it, Narcissa, but I can’t help it, I can’t. I’m dreadful upset!Oh, William, I’m dreadful upset!It ain’t his death alone – it’s –”

“Mother, I’d rather tell him myself,” interrupted Narcissa. She took the quilt from her mother, and drew the rocking-chair towards her.”Do sit down and keep calm, mother,” said she.

But it was not easy for the older woman, in her bewilderment of grief and change, to keep calm.

“Oh, William, do you know what we’re goin’ to do?” she wailed, yet seating herself obediently in the rocking-chair.”We’re goin’ to New York. Narcissa says so. We’re goin’ to take the insurance money, when we get it, an’ we’re goin’ to New York. I tell her we hadn’t ought to, but she won’t listen to it!There’s the trunk. Look at there, William!She dragged it down from the garret this forenoon. Look at there, William!”