"My mother looked so lovely in her death! She was always pretty,
and now she looked fair, and waxen, and young--younger than
Deborah, as she stood trembling and shivering by her. We decked
her in the long soft folds; she lay smiling, as if pleased; and
people came--all Cranford came--to beg to see her, for they had
loved her dearly, as well they might; and the countrywomen brought
posies; old Clare's wife brought some white violets and begged they
might lie on her breast.

"Deborah said to me, the day of my mother's funeral, that if she
had a hundred offers she never would marry and leave my father. It
was not very likely she would have so many--I don't know that she
had one; but it was not less to her credit to say so. She was such
a daughter to my father as I think there never was before or since.
His eyes failed him, and she read book after book, and wrote, and
copied, and was always at his service in any parish business. She
could do many more things than my poor mother could; she even once
wrote a letter to the bishop for my father. But he missed my
mother sorely; the whole parish noticed it. Not that he was less
active; I think he was more so, and more patient in helping every
one. I did all I could to set Deborah at liberty to be with him;
for I knew I was good for little, and that my best work in the
world was to do odd jobs quietly, and set others at liberty. But
my father was a changed man."

"Did Mr Peter ever come home?"

"Yes, once. He came home a lieutenant; he did not get to be
admiral. And he and my father were such friends! My father took