stiff Sunday clothes,
although it wasn't Sunday. There were aunts, and uncles, and cousins,
and then just neighbors. They filled the little house full. Some of the
men went out and split wood and brought in big armfuls and piled it in
the corner. They moved on tiptoe and talked in whispers. And now and
then they would walk softly into the little parlor by twos and threes
and close the door after them.

This parlor was always a forbidden place to the children; on Sunday
afternoons only were they allowed to go in there, or on prayer-meeting
night.

In this parlor were six haircloth chairs and a sofa to match. In the
center was a little marble-top table, and on it were two red books and a
blue one. On the mantel was a plaster-of-Paris cat at one end and a
bunch of crystallized flowers at the other. There was a "what-not" in
the corner covered with little shells and filled with strange and
wonderful things. There was a "store" carpet, bright red. It was a very
beautiful room, and to look into it was a great privilege.

Little Robert had tried several times to enter the parlor this cold
winter morning, but each time he had been thrust back. Finally he clung
to the leg of a tall man, and was safely inside. It was very cold--one
of the windows was open! He looked about with wondering baby eyes to see
what the people wanted to go in there for!

On two of the haircloth chairs rested a coffin. The baby hands clutched
the side--he drew himself up on tiptoe and looked down at the still,
white face--the face of his mother. Her hands were crossed just so, and
in her fingers was a spray of flowers--he recognized them as the flowers
she had always worn on her Sunday bonnet--a rusty black bonnet--not real
flowers, just "made" flowers.

But why was she so quiet? He had never seen her hands that way before:
those hands were always busy--knitting, sewing, cooking, weaving,
scrubbing, washing!

"Mamma! Mamma!" called the boy.

"Hush, little boy, hush! Your Mamma is dead," said the tall man, and he
lifted the boy in his arms and carried him from the room.

Out in the kitchen, in a crib in the corner, lay the "Other Baby," and
thither little Robert made his way. He patted the sleeping baby brother,
and called aloud in lisping words, "Wake up, Baby, your Mamma is dead!"

And the baby in the crib knew quite as much about it as the toddler in
the linsey-woolsey dress, and the toddler knew as much about death as we
do today. This wee