Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and
somewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wife
steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his
countenance--

"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning
cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little
one," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word,
and the moisture dimmed his eyes.

"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put
on mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of
non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to
her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow
awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can you
think of such a thing?"

"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldest
daughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I
were to neglect so binding a duty."

"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived
at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning
garments.

"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have any
thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and
need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments
cannot add to our sorrow."