death, which such people have no hesitation in expressing. Society veils
it with decent reserve, and calls it morbid and vulgar, yet it is
ineradicably human, and circumstances alone decide whether it shall be
confessed.

But when the preacher came out of the house, all was quiet and deserted.
The snow, driving in white sheets down the mountains, was tinged with a
faint glow, where, in a blinding mist it whirled across the yards; it had
come too late to save the lumber, but it had checked and deadened the
flames, so that the few unburned planks only smouldered slowly into
ashes.

John had told Mrs. Davis of her loss with that wonderful gentleness which
characterized all his dealings with sorrow. He found her trying to quiet
her baby, when he went in, leaving outside in the softly falling snow
that ghastly burden which the men bore. She looked up with startled,
questioning eyes as he entered. He took the child out of her arms, and
hushed it upon his breast, and then, with one of her shaking hands held
firm in his, he told her.

Afterwards, it seemed to her that the sorrow in his face had told her,
and that she knew his message before he spoke.

Mrs. Davis had not broken into loud weeping when she heard her husband's
fate, and she was very calm, when John saw her again, after all had been
done which was needful for the dead; only moving nervously about, trying
to put the room into an unusual order. John could not bear to leave her;
knowing what love is, his sympathy for her grief was almost grief itself;
yet he had said all that he could say to comfort her, all that he could
of Tom's bravery in rushing into the fire, and it seemed useless to stay.