but her tongue had learned the trick of our language when her father and
mother could not speak nor understand a word, and so she became a
childish interpreter of manners and customs in general. But we knew that
mothers' hearts are the same the world over, and, lacking the power to
put our sympathy in words, we sent Daga's last bit of sewing to her
mother. Sure enough, no word was needed; the message explained itself;
and when we went to take a last look at the dear child, the scrap of
cardboard lay in the still hand, the needle threaded with yellow wool,
the childish knot, soiled and cumbersome, hanging below the pattern just
as she had left it. It was her only funeral offering, her only funeral
service, and was it not something of a sermon? It told the history of
her industry, her sudden call from earthly things, and her mother's
tender thought. It chanced to be a symbol, too, as things do chance
sometimes, for it was a butterfly dropping its cocoon behind it, and
spreading its wings for flight.

Patsy had been our messenger during Daga's illness, and his mind was
evidently on that mystery which has puzzled souls since the beginning of
time; for no anxious, weary, waiting heart has ever ceased to beat
without its passionate desire to look into the beyond.

"Nixy Jones's mother died yesterday, Miss Kate. They had an orful nice
funeral."

"Yes, I'm sorry for the poor little children; they will miss their
mamma."

"Not 'nuff to hurt 'em! Them Joneses never cared nuthin' for nobody;
they was playing on tin oyster cans the hull blessed ev'nin', till Jim
went 'nd stop't 'em, 'nd told 'em it warn't perlite. Say how dretful it