The late afternoon sun was streaming in across the cabin floor as the girl

stole around the corner and looked cautiously in at the door.

There was a kind of tremulous courage in her face. She had a duty to

perform, and she was resolved to do it without delay. She shaded her eyes

with her hand from the glare of the sun, set a firm foot upon the

threshold, and, with one wild glance around to see whether all was as she

had left it, entered her home and stood for a moment shuddering in the

middle of the floor.

A long procession of funerals seemed to come out of the past and meet her

eye as she looked about upon the signs of the primitive, unhallowed one

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which had just gone out from there a little while before.

The girl closed her eyes, and pressed their hot, dry lids hard with her

cold fingers; but the vision was clearer even than with her eyes open.

She could see the tiny baby sister lying there in the middle of the room,

so little and white and pitiful; and her handsome, careless father sitting

at the head of the rude home-made coffin, sober for the moment; and her

tired, disheartened mother, faded before her time, dry-eyed and haggard,

beside him. But that was long ago, almost at the beginning of things for

the girl.

There had been other funerals, the little brother who had been drowned

while playing in a forbidden stream, and the older brother who had gone

off in search of gold or his own way, and had crawled back parched with

fever to die in his mother's arms. But those, too, seemed long ago to the

girl as she stood in the empty cabin and looked fearfully about her. They

seemed almost blotted out by the last three that had crowded so close

within the year. The father, who even at his worst had a kind word for her

and her mother, had been brought home mortally hurt--an encounter with

wild cattle, a fall from his horse in a treacherous place--and had never

roused to consciousness again.

At all these funerals there had been a solemn service, conducted by a

travelling preacher when one happened to be within reach, and, when there

was none, by the trembling, determined, untaught lips of the white-faced

mother. The mother had always insisted upon it, especially upon a prayer.

It had seemed like a charm to help the departed one into some kind of a

pitiful heaven.

And when, a few months after the father, the mother had drooped and grown

whiter and whiter, till one day she clutched at her heart and lay down

gasping, and said: "Good-by, Bess! Mother's good girl! Don't forget!" and

was gone from her life of burden and disappointment forever, the girl had

prepared the funeral with the assistance of the one brother left. The

girl's voice had uttered the prayer, "Our Father," just as her mother had

taught her, because there was no one else to do it; and she was afraid to

send the wild young brother off after a preacher, lest he should not

return in time.




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