depart to the larder nothing loath. But if he
thought Miss Hepsy meant to open the letter and confide its contents
to him he was mistaken, for she pushed it aside and went on with her
ironing. So after being briefly rested and refreshed, he went his
way, bidding her a surly good-afternoon. Still the letter lay
untouched upon the table till the last collar was hung on the horse,
the irons set on the flags to cool, and the blanket folded in the
dresser. Then Miss Hepsy broke the seal, and read without change of
expression what ought to have been a sorrowful intimation to her, the
news of the death of her younger and only sister, who had married and
been left a widow in Newhaven. But before Miss Hepsy had read to the
end, her expression _did_ change, and she exclaimed, "Wal, if this
ain't about the humbugginest fix. Hetty's boy and gal got to come
here--nowhere else to go. Wonder what Josh'll say?"

Miss Hepsy sat down, and, crossing her long hands on her lap,
remained deep in thought till the old clock struck again, five this
time. Then she sprang to her feet, whisked the letter into the table
drawer, and fetching out baking-board and flour-basin, proceeded to
make dough for a supper cake. It was barely ready when her brother
came in at six, and he looked slightly surprised to see no signs of
the supper on the table.

"I've had a letter from Newhaven, Josh," Miss Hepsy said abruptly.
"Hetty's dead; you won't be surprised to hear, I suppose. It's from
her minister; and he says you've got to come up right away and see
about things, an' fetch back the boy and gal with you. They've got
nowhere else to go, he says, an' we're their nearest kinsfolk. I got
thinkin' it over, and forgot my work, like a fool."

Joshua Strong's grim face grew grimmer, if possible, as he listened
to his sister's words. He reached out his hand for the letter she had
taken from the drawer, and slowly spelt it to the end.

"There ain't anything for it but grin and bear it, Hepsy," he said.
"Though I don't see what business folks has marryin' an' dyin' an'
leavin' their children to poor folks to keep. It'll be a mighty
difference to expense havin' other two mouths to feed an' backs to
clothe."

"An' what I'm to make of two fine gentry children, as Hetty's are
sure to be, round all the time, I don't know," said Miss Hepsy,
whisking off a griddle cake with unnecessary vigour. "I declare Hetty
might have had more sense than think we could do with 'em.