floor.

Not more tenderly, scarce more tearfully, could he have ministered to
one who had been his life-long companion. Where shall the poor lady be
buried? Adele answers that, with eyes flashing through her
tears,--nowhere but in Ashfield, nowhere except beside the sister,
Marie.

It is a dismal journey for the father and the daughter; it is almost a
silent journey. Does she love him less? No, a thousand times, no. Does
he love her less? No, a thousand times, no. In such presence love is
awed into silence. As the mournful _cortege_ enters the town of
Ashfield, it passes the home of that fatherless boy, Arthur, for whom
Adele had shown such sympathy. The youngster is there swinging upon the
gate, his cap gayly set off with feathers, and he looking wonderingly
upon the bier. He sees, too, the sad face of Adele, and, by some strange
rush of memory, recalls, as he looks on her, the letter which she had
given him long ago, and which till then had been forgotten. He runs to
his mother: it is in his pocket,--it is in that of some summer jacket.
At last it is found; and the poor woman herself, that very morning, with
numberless apologies, delivers it at the door of the parsonage.

Phil is the first to meet this exceptional funeral company, and is the
first to tell Adele how Reuben lies stricken almost to death at the
parsonage. She thanks him: she thanks him again for the tender care
which he shows in all relating to the approaching burial. When an enemy
even comes forward to help us bury the child we loved or the parent we
mourn, our hearts warm toward him as they never warmed before; but when
a friend assumes these offices of tenderness, and takes away the
harshest edge of grief by assuming the harshest duties of grief, our
hearts shower upon him their tenderest sympathies. We never forget it.

Of course, the arrival of this strange freight in Ashfield gives rise to
a world of gossip. We cannot follow it; we cannot rehearse it. The poor
woman is buried, as Adele had wished, beside her sister. No _De
Profundis_ except the murmur of the winds through the crimson and the
scarlet leaves of later September.

The Tourtelots have been eager with their gossip. The dame has queried
if there should not be some town demonstration against the burial of the
Papist. But the little Deacon has been milder; and we give our last
glimpse of him--altogether characteristic--in a suggestion which he
makes in a friendly way to Squire Elderki