upraised heads, as if they looked for danger.

John Thacher had brought his sister's child all the way in his arms,
and she had clapped her hands and laughed aloud and tried to talk a
great deal with the few words she had learned to say. She was very gay
in her baby fashion; she was amused with the little crowd so long as
it did not trouble her. She fretted only when the grave, kind man, for
whom she had instantly felt a great affection, stayed too long by that
deep hole in the ground and wept as he saw a strange thing that the
people had carried all the way, put down into it out of sight. When he
walked on again, she laughed and played; but after they had reached
the empty gray house, which somehow looked that day as if it were a
mourner also, she shrank from all the strangers, and seemed dismayed
and perplexed, and called her mother eagerly again and again. This
touched many a heart. The dead woman had been more or less unfamiliar
of late years to all of them; and there were few who had really
grieved for her until her little child had reminded them of its own
loneliness and loss.

That night, after the house was still, John Thacher wrote to acquaint
Miss Prince, of Dunport, with his sister's death and to say that it
was her wish that the child should remain with them during its
minority. They should formally appoint the guardian whom she had
selected; they would do their best by the little girl. And when Mrs.
Thacher asked if he had blamed Miss Prince, he replied that he had
left that to her own conscience.

In the answer which was quickly returned, there was a plea for the
custody of the child, her mother's and her own namesake, but this was
indignantly refused. There was no love lost between the town and the