tub, and trickled across the floor. She asked about the children, and
said she had brought some food for them; she knew it was so hard to have
to think of housekeeping at such a time.

But the widow scarcely listened; she stood lifting the shirt from the
water, and rubbing it gently between her hard hands, then dipping it back
into the suds again. Once she stopped, and drew the back of her wet hand
across her eyes, and once Helen heard her sigh; yet she did not speak of
her sorrow, nor of Elder Dean's cruel words. For a little while the two
women were silent.

"Mrs. Davis," Helen said, at last, "I'm so sorry."

It was a very simple thing to say, but it caught the woman's ear; it was
different from any of the sympathy to which, in a dull, hopeless way, she
had listened all that morning. The neighbors had sighed and groaned, and
told her it was "awful hard on her," and had pitied Tom for his terrible
death; and then Mr. Dean had come, with fearful talk of justice, and of
hell.

A big tear rolled down her face, and dropped into the tub. "Thank you,
ma'am," she said.

She made a pretense of turning towards the light of the one small window
to see if the shirt was quite clean; then she began to wring it out,
wrapping the twist of wet linen about her wrist. When she spoke again,
her voice was steady.

"Elder Dean 'lows I oughtn't to be sorry; he says I'd ought to be
resigned to God's justice. He says good folks ought to be glad when