was quite stiff from sitting so long in one position,--and going
downstairs, woke a neighbor who occupied a room on the next floor.

"Mrs. Bennett, my mother is dead; can you take care of the Cap'n and
the Gen'ral this morning? I'll pay you for it when I sell my papers
to-night."

Mrs. Bennett was a wrinkled old woman of about sixty-five. She was
deeply interested in tales of death and calamity, and instantly offered
not only to do what she could for the boys, but to go upstairs and
assist in the laying out of the dead woman.

"No, no; I'll do what's wanted myself," replied Bet; "ef you'll take
the boys I'll bring them down asleep as they are, and I'll be ever so
much obligated. No, don't come upstairs, please. Father'll be in
presently, and then him and me and mother must be alone; for I've a
word to say to father, and no one must hear me."

Bet went back to the room where her mother had died. She was very
tired, and her limbs were stiff and ached badly after the long night's
vigil she had gone through. No particular or overwhelming grief
oppressed her. On the whole, she had loved her mother better than any
other human being; but the time for grief, and the awful sense of not
having her to turn to, had not yet arrived; she was only conscious of
a very solemn promise made, and of an overpowering sense of weariness.
She lay down on the bed beside the dead woman, and fell into a sound
and dreamless slumber.

In about an hour's time noisy steps were heard ascending the stairs.
The littleboys, cuddling close to one another in Mrs. Bennett's bed,