od--beautiful still, though its animating spirit had
fled--and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one. When she
lifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Then
the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled the
emotion that wellnigh mastered him. The sisters came next, with
audible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears. A moment or two they
gazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow,
and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one present
experienced a momentary feeling of suffocation.

As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the family
passed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossiping
neighbours--such as, with no particular acquaintance with the
principal members of a household, know all about the internal
management of every dwelling in the square--assembled close by, and
thus discoursed of the events connected with the burying.

"Poor Mrs. Condy," said one, "how can she bear the loss of that
sweet little fellow!"

"Other people have lost children as well as she," remarked a
sour-looking dame. "Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as well
as we poor folks."

No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentary
silence.

"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker.
"Little Willie only died yesterday morning."

"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth.

"Hardly," said the other.

"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who made
the allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, the
chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to
borrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were all
hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to
attend the funeral in."

"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did
about the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group.

"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any
one," replied the woman who had first spoken.

"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their works
ye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being so
dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a
to-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and long
black veils are truly enough called mourning--they are an excellent
counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all the
money that was