er day, just after Dely was seventeen, she was nearly distracted.
However, people who must work for their living have to get over their
sorrows, practically, much sooner than those who can afford time to
indulge them; and as Dely knew more about the business and the shop than
anybody but the foreman, she had to resume her place at the counter
before her father had been buried a week. It was a great source of
embarrassment to her rural admirers to see Dely in her black frock, pale
and sober, when they went in; they did not know what to say; they felt
as if their hands and feet had grown very big all at once, and as if the
cents in their pockets never could be got at, at which they turned red
and hot and got choked, and went away, swearing internally at their own
blundering shyness, and deeper smitten than ever with Dely, because they
wanted to comfort her so very much, and didn't know how!

One, however, had the sense and simplicity to know how, and that was
George Adams, a fine healthy young fellow from Hartland Hollow, who came
in at least once a week with a load of produce from the farm on which he
was head man. The first time he went after his rations of gingerbread,
and found Dely in her mourning, he held out his hand and shook hers
heartily. Dely looked up into his honest blue eyes and saw them full of
pity.

"I'm real sorry for you!" said George, "My father died two years ago."

Dely burst into tears, and George couldn't help stroking her bright hair
softly and saying, "Oh, don't!" So she wiped her eyes, and sold him the
cookies he wanted; but from that day there was one of Dely's customers
that she liked best, one team of white horses she always looked out for,
and one voice that hurried the color into her face, if it was ever so
pale and the upshot of pity and produce and gingerbread was that George
Adams and Dely German were heartily in love with each other, and Dely
began to be comforted for her father's loss six months after he died.
Not that she knew why, or that George had ever said anything to her more
than was kind and friendly, but she felt a sense of rest, and yet a
sweet restlessness, when he was in her thoughts or presence, that
beguiled her grief and made her unintentionally happy: it was the old,
old story; the one eternal novelty that never loses its vitality, its
interest, its bewitching power, nor ever will till Time shall be no
more.

But the year had not elapsed, devoted to double crape and