It may have seemed a strange thing, but, nevertheless, it was a
fact, that one who appeared to make no difference to anybody while
she was alive should yet be capable of causing quite a commotion the
moment she was dead.

This was the case with old Mrs. Bell. For years she had lived in her
pleasant south room, basking in the sun in summer, and half sleeping
by the fire in winter. She never read; she spoke very little; she did
not even knit, and never, by any chance, did she stir outside those
four walls. She was in a living tomb, and was forgotten there. The
four walls of her room were her grave. Lydia Purcell, to all intents
and purposes, was mistress of all she surveyed.

But from the moment it was discovered that Mrs. Bell was dead--from
the moment it was known that the time had come to shut her up in four
much smaller walls--the aspect of everything was changed. She was no
longer a person of no importance.

No importance! Her name was in everybody's mouth. The servants
talked of her. The villagers whispered, and came and asked to look at
her; and then they commented on the peaceful old face, and one or two
shed tears and inwardly breathed a prayer that their last end might
be like hers.

The house was full of subdued bustle and decorous excitement; and
all the bustle and all the excitement were caused by Mrs. Bell.

Mrs. Bell, who spent her days from morning to night alone while she
was living, who had even died alone! It was only after death she