rouble fetchin' on it up. Folks can do pretty well with children when
they're young and spry, if they do get 'em up nights; but come to
grandchildren, it's pretty tough."

"I'm a-thinkin', sister," said Miss Ruey, taking off her spectacles and
rubbing her nose thoughtfully, "whether or no cow's milk ain't goin' to
be too hearty for it, it's such a pindlin' little thing. Now, Mis'
Badger she brought up a seven-months' child, and she told me she gave it
nothin' but these 'ere little seed cookies, wet in water, and it throve
nicely,--and the seed is good for wind."

"Oh, don't tell me none of Mis' Badger's stories," said Miss Roxy, "I
don't believe in 'em. Cows is the Lord's ordinances for bringing up
babies that's lost their mothers; it stands to reason they should
be,--and babies that can't eat milk, why they can't be fetched up; but
babies can eat milk, and this un will if it lives, and if it can't it
won't live." So saying, Miss Roxy drummed away on the little back of the
party in question, authoritatively, as if to pound in a wholesome
conviction at the outset.

"I hope," said Miss Ruey, holding up a strip of black crape, and looking
through it from end to end so as to test its capabilities, "I hope the
Cap'n and Mis' Pennel'll get some support at the prayer-meetin' this
afternoon."

"It's the right place to go to," said Miss Roxy, with decision.

"Mis' Pennel said this mornin' that she was just beat out tryin' to
submit; and the more she said, 'Thy will be done,' the more she didn't
seem to feel it."

"Them's common feelin's among mourners, Ruey. These 'ere forty years
that I've been round nussin', and layin'-out, and tendin' funerals, I've
watched people's exercises. People's sometimes supported wonderfully
just at the time, and maybe at the funeral; but the three or four weeks
after, most everybody, if they's to say what they feel, is
unreconciled."

"The Cap'n, he don't say nothin'," said Miss Ruey.

"No, he don't, but he looks it in his eyes," said Miss Roxy; "he's one
of the kind o' mourners as takes it deep; that kind don't cry; it's a
kind o' dry, deep pain; them's the worst to get over it,--sometimes they
just says nothin', and in about six months they send for you to nuss 'em
in consumption or somethin'. Now, Mis' Pennel, she can cry and she can
talk,--well, she'll get over it; but _he_ won't get no support unless
the Lord reaches right down and lifts him up over the world. I've seen
that happen so