and wishing they were there. He said
little of his health, but always assured them that Janey and Willy
were real smart, and sent his love to Anne Peace and his remembrance
to all friends at home.

The letters were short, and each time they grew a little shorter, till
by and by it was only a postal card, written in a faint and trembling
hand, but saying that the weather was fine, and father was so glad to
get their little letter, and he would write more next time, but was
very busy just now. When she read one of these, Anne Peace would go
away into her little cold room for a while, and then would come back
smiling and say that now they must write a real _good_ letter to
father, and tell him how well they were doing at school.

At last came a week when there was no postal card; another week, and
there came a letter edged with black and written in Mrs. Means's hand.
The children were at school when it came, and Jenny Miller, coming in
by chance to bring a pot of head-cheese of her mother's making, found
Miss Peace crouching in the corner of the sofa, weeping quietly, with
the letter lying on her lap.

"Why, Miss Peace," cried Jenny, frightened at the sight of tears in
those steadfast eyes, "What is the matter? Do tell me, dear! Why,
you're real cold in here. I do believe the fire has gone out. You've
had bad news, Miss Peace, have you? Do tell me, that's a dear soul,
and don't cry."

"Yes," said Anne Peace. "The fire is out, Jenny, and David is dead."

She held out the letter, saying something about
"privilege--think--rest;" but Jenny Miller was already on her knees,
putting kindlings into the stove at a reckless rate. Then, when the
fire was crackling merrily, she ran to fetch a shawl and wrapped it
round the poor trembling shoulders, and chafed the cold hands in her
own warm, young fingers. But soon Miss Peace grew uneasy; she was not
used to being "done for," having only the habit of doing for others.
She pointed eagerly to the letter. "Read it, Jenny," she said,
anxiously. "I--I am all right, dear. It's come rather sudden, that's
all, and those poor little children--but read the letter." The words
died away, and Jenny, sitting down beside her, took the paper and
read.

It began "Friend Anne," and went on to say that the writer's poor
husband died yesterday, and she was left, as she always knew she
should be, a widow with four children. It did seem to her as if he
might have been let die to home, instead of be