n I can tell.

"Yes," said the man, who seemed much better-natured than his wife. She
appeared like a person whose only aim in life was to have things over
with. "Yes, we're going to bury at two o'clock. They had a master sight
of trouble, first and last."

Leander had said nothing all this time. He had known the man, and had
expected to spend the day with him and to get him to go on two miles
farther to help bargain for a dory. He asked, in a disappointed way,
what had carried him off so sudden.

"Drink," said the woman, relentlessly. "He ain't been good for nothing
sence his wife died: she was took with a fever along in the first of
August. _I_'d ha' got up from it!"

"Now don't be hard on the dead, Marthy," said her husband. "I guess they
done the best they could. They weren't shif'less, you know; they never
had no health; 't was against wind and tide with 'em all the time." And
Kate asked, "Did you say he was your brother?"

"Yes. I was half-sister to him," said the woman, promptly, with perfect
unconsciousness of Kate's meaning.

"And what will become of those poor children?"

"I've got the two youngest over to my place to take care on, and the two
next them has been put out to some folks over to the cove. I dare say
like's not they'll be sent back."

"They're clever child'n, I guess," said the man, who spoke as if this
were the first time he had dared take their part. "Don't be ha'sh,
Marthy! Who knows but they may do for us when we get to be old?" And
then she turned and looked at him with utter contempt. "I can't stand it
to hear men-folks talking on what they don't know nothing about," said
she. "The ways of Providence is dreadful myster'ous," she went on with a
whine, instead of the sharp tone of voice which we had heard before.
"We've had a hard row, and we've just got our own children off our hands
and able to do for themselves, and now here are these to be fetched up."

"But perhaps they'll be a help to you; they seem to be good little
things," said Kate. "I saw them in the summer, and they seemed to be
pleasant children, and it is dreadfully hard for them to be left alone.
It's not their fault, you know. We brought over something for them; will
you be kind enough to take the basket when you go home?"

"Thank ye, I'm sure," said the aunt, relenting slightly. "You can speak
to my man about it, and he'll give it to somebody that's going by. I've
got to walk in the procession. They'll be obliged, I'